


(I Love) The Way You Hurt Me

by RedTeamShark



Series: American Beauty/American Psycho [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Abortion (mentioned/discussed), Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Beta!Sam, Bonding, Canon Divergence - Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Clint Barton's Farm, Deaf Clint Barton, Developing Relationship, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Mpreg, Post-HYDRA Reveal, Presumed character death, omega!Clint, past relationship, references to rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-01-25 15:17:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21358354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedTeamShark/pseuds/RedTeamShark
Summary: I love you,he hears in his head. Brock's voice, Brock's last words to him.I love you. Goodbye.--How is Clint Barton supposed to move forward? How is he supposed to have Brock Rumlow's baby without his alpha by his side? He can feel his life slipping from his fingertips again, spinning out of control, no one offering him a safe place to land.Until an unexpected ally in Sam Wilson offers him some stable ground and a life he's barely started to let himself dream of.(Very roughly canon compliant with Avengers: Age of Ultron if the timeline is rearranged and there's no Ultron in the movie.)
Relationships: Clint Barton & Avengers Team, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton & Sam Wilson, Clint Barton/Brock Rumlow, Clint Barton/Sam Wilson
Series: American Beauty/American Psycho [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1461979
Comments: 49
Kudos: 96





	1. Too Many War Wounds (Not Enough Wars)

**Author's Note:**

> This story probably won't make sense if you haven't read part 1 of the series, "Bruises On Your Thighs (Like My Fingerprints)"
> 
> The references to rape made are people (mostly Steve Rogers) calling out that Clint's consent was obtained without him being fully informed of the situation. Clint doesn't see it that way and vehemently insists he wasn't raped. Depending on how you read the situation, tread with or without caution.

He sits alone in the small waiting room, bouncing his foot in an impatient staccato on the floor. It was supposed to be routine. It was supposed to be another shot, another six months as a Beta. Another six months without a heat. Happy isn’t due to pick him up for another half hour. The shots make him woozy and he’s supposed to lie down in the exam room until that passes, then go home and take it easy.

After a minute, Clint Barton picks up his phone and dials a too-familiar number. He has to tell him.

It rings long enough that he’s pretty sure he’s going to get a voicemail, the usual full inbox alert. Then he’ll have to decide if he should text or wait or try to call again or--

“Rumlow.”

Just hearing his voice sends Clint’s heart hammering into his throat. His Alpha. _ His_. “Brock, it’s Clint.”

“Clint, I… Now’s not the best time…” Brock trails off and Clint strains to hear anything else on the line. He wouldn’t answer his phone if he was on a job or in a meeting, not even for his Omega.

“I know, you’re at work. But…” He inhales and exhales. Just get it over with. “I just… I didn’t want to wait to tell you. I’m pregnant.” Saying it out loud, even in a whisper, makes it real. His throat closes for a moment with emotion, and he forces the next words out around the lump. “You’re gonna be a daddy.”

“How… How? I thought you were--you know, the Beta shot.”

He can still get pregnant passing as a Beta, it’s just dangerous. This, however, is pure Omega hormones. The doctor had checked his chart at the beginning of the appointment, asked him if he’d had unprotected sex in the last four weeks. Ordered a pregnancy test when he’d confirmed that he had. “They're not one hundred percent, even if they suppress heat. And… Brock, are you okay?”

Whatever he’s doing, he’s trying to hide it. A different level of fear jackrabbits Clint’s heart rate. “Clint, I don’t… I don’t say it enough, but I love you. I love you, and I’m yours.” Small pops in the background, gunfire on the other side of a wall. Clint’s anxiety ratchets up another notch. “Are you at the farm?”

His chest is aching. His stomach is curdling with cold dread. They don’t say those words, they don’t… “Wh… Brock, what’s going on? I’m in New York, why are you--” Someone at reception gasps and he whips around, just in time to see the news footage. The familiar shape of the Triskelion with three massive helicarriers rising beside it. _ S.H.I.E.L.D. Compromised by Hydra? Developing Story _ the bottom line reads. “Oh my god. What’s happening at S.H.I.E.L.D.? Are you okay?!”

“You’re going to hear some terrible things about me soon. Some terrible, true things, but I want you to know that this is true more than any of them: I love you. I’ll do anything for you.” He doesn’t say it, but Clint can hear the plea in his voice. _ Say you love me, too. _

He swallows, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood before speaking. “I love you, Brock, I… If you’ll do anything for me, then come home to me. Promise me that. You’re my Alpha and I need you. We’re both going to need you.” He can’t raise a kid alone. He can’t have this baby without his Alpha by his side. Unbonded is bad enough, but without his Alpha? It’s unthinkable.

On the line, he can hear Brock’s slow breathing. “If our baby’s a girl, name her Natasha, okay? I made a deal with someone. I love you. Goodbye.”

“Brock? Brock! God dammit, ans--” The phone line is dead and Clint slams his phone down, standing up and spilling the papers and pamphlets onto the ground. “Turn the TV up. Please!” He calls over to reception, walking over to it and wrapping his arms around himself.

He watches the footage as the helicarrier crashes into the building. He watches as the headlines change, updating as information is shared.

_ Captain America Missing_, it declares at one point, and his stomach turns.

_ Hydra Infiltration Led by S.T.R.I.K.E. Operatives_, another headline rolls by, accompanying a picture of the S.T.R.I.K.E. team. Clint meets Brock’s eyes in the photo, his throat lurching, a helpless dry-heave of terror.

He puts the pieces together too quickly, tries to close his eyes against the whole picture that he now has.

_ I love you, _ he hears in his head, Brock’s voice, Brock’s last words to him. _ I love you. Goodbye. _

Clint finally leaves with Happy when the doctor’s office closes. They’re still looking for survivors at the Triskelion.

* * *

The worst part of it is the goddamned _ hope _ that won’t go away. He sits in the Tower with Tony and Pepper and watches the news, watches as they bring bodies and a few scattered survivors out of the wreck of the Triskelion. Fury is dead. Steve is still missing. Natasha turns up from somewhere in the middle of it with a list of dead World Security Council members. Pierce was Hydra--that shouldn’t surprise him. The man once turned down a Nobel Peace Prize.

When his phone rings he holds his breath against hope, but it’s not Brock. It’s Natasha and he answers it before it can ring again, jams the receiver against his ear. “Tell me Steve’s okay.”

“Not sure yet, he was on the carrier when it went down.” She hesitates and he grits his teeth together. “Clint…”

“I’m in New York, with Tony and Pepper. Can you get here tonight?”

Natasha sighs down the phone line, but he knows that sound--she’s going to do her damnedest to do what he wants, what he needs. “I’ll try. Don’t wait up for me, though.”

* * *

Of course Natasha makes it. He asked her to. And she doesn’t come alone.

Steve is still in his uniform, bloody and muddy. Hill is with them, and a man he doesn’t recognize, introduced as Sam Wilson. Clint can’t even pretend to be surprised that Fury is also there. The man is unkillable.

“J.A.R.V.I.S., secure building,” Tony orders as soon as the four of them are inside. “Send for doctors of both the medical and Banner variety. No one else gets above the thirtieth floor.”

_ “As you wish, Mr. Stark.” _

Taking care of injuries comes first, primarily Steve’s multiple gunshot and stab wounds. Anyone else would be dead just from the impacts, and the mud would cause infection, sepsis… Well, Clint just figures they should all count their lucky stars that the local supersoldier is the one who took the bullets.

The nine of them settle around couches with hot coffee once the doctor leaves, no one much interested in sleep, not even the ones that truly need it. Natasha fills in most of the blanks that the news casts haven’t already gotten, her eyes shifting from person to person, studiously avoiding Clint’s gaze. Their conversation is of the nonverbal variety, questions and answers in body language and lack of eye contact.

They finally call it a night as the sun starts to rise and J.A.R.V.I.S. obligingly darkens the windows in their rooms. The Tower is one of the few places he feels secure, so Clint pops his hearing aids out before he curls into bed, an extra layer of protection against being woken up. He does that at the farm, mostly because the birds wake him up too damn early if he doesn’t.

He’s exhausted, but sleep is a long time coming, his hand stroking low over his stomach. He feels his lips moving, words in his head possibly being spoken aloud. Assuring his baby that he loves it, that he’ll take care of it. “Your daddy loves you, too,” he murmurs, feeling a tear slip down the side of his face. Please, please don’t let that be the first lie he tells his child.

When Clint wakes up there are arms around him, the familiar press of Natasha’s body at his back. About the only person that can sneak up on him, even when he can’t hear. Definitely the only person that can get this close to him without setting off his internal alarms. He wiggles around, grabs one of his hearing aids and pops it back in, turning it on. “Nat?”

“Couldn’t sleep alone.” Her face barely twitches, her eyes not opening, her breath still even like she’s deeply asleep. “Didn’t want you to, either.”

Clint settles back into her arms, resting his hand over hers. He stares at the darkened windows, breathing slowly. “I’m pregnant.”

“Mm?”

“I’m pregnant. It’s Brock’s,” he repeats, words a little firmer. Her arms tighten around him for a moment. “I called him to tell him, just before the Triskelion went down. He told me he loves me. That the terrible things I was about to learn about him were true. And… and he asked me to name our baby Natasha, if it’s a girl.” He blinks back tears, staring at the shaded windows. It has to be midday, but the tint makes it look like midnight out there. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

“Sam ran into him on the forty-first floor. He didn’t make it out before the collapse.” She moves her hand low on his stomach, kissing his shoulder gently. “He flipped to our side at the end.”

“When?” He has to know. He has to know how long his relationship, his love, was a lie. Before the baby? Before the house? Before the months and months together? Was any of it ever true?

“Came to me five weeks ago with information. We had to play it subtle for him to even have a chance of getting out alive. He knew the risks when he came to me, but… He did it for you, Clint. I don’t know how long it took him to flip in his mind, but a guy like that, something tells me he’d been on our side for a while before he spoke up. On your side.”

“Was getting me pregnant part of his mission? Was he supposed to force me to bond?”

“Yes.” The truth stings, even from her, a part of his heart slamming denial over the word. There’s no point in listening to his heart, however. Natasha doesn’t lie to him and he doesn’t lie to her. “He wasn’t going to follow through. Not without your consent. That’s what he told me. I believed him. Is this… did you…” She hums, letting the question go unspoken.

He presses their hands a little more firmly to his stomach. “We always used condoms. About a month ago, we were up at the farm and realized we’d run out. He offered to go buy more, I said don’t worry about it. He asked if I was sure before we got to the main event. I said yes. I meant it.” He swallows, letting his breath out in a shaky exhale. “He called me his and said he was mine. My Alpha, his Omega. Our baby.”

Natasha hums against his skin, her fingers rubbing his stomach slowly. He’s barely a month along, there’s nothing but flat muscle there, but warmth still pools inside him. “I’ll keep an ear to the ground, Clint. They were still finding survivors when we snuck out of DC.”

Somehow, that Brock wasn’t using him is a cold comfort. Their love was genuine, but the ache deep in his heart tells him all he needs to know.

Past tense. His Alpha is dead.

* * *

DC is slightly better at discretion, but New York is much more liberal with Omega rights. Clint announces that he’s going to head back home after a few days, adding that he’ll find his own way. Natasha gives him a knowing look and he shrugs.

He goes to an internet cafe in Queens first, buys fifteen minutes of web time and looks up Omega free clinics in Brooklyn. There are a lot, like he suspected, the reason he chose that particular borough to begin with. Two of them have what he’s looking for, though. Pregnancy services, no ID requirements, no appointment necessary, no Alpha approval. Clint flips a coin and jots down an address on a napkin just before his purchased time runs out.

It’s discreet, which is a godsend, a little shop nestled into a row of them, looking like any other small business. The sign in the window is simple white lettering of the name, with no further information.

He lets himself in and walks to the front desk, where a pretty Omega woman sits behind bulletproof glass. She looks up, offering him a smile and picking up a telephone. On his side, the line begins to ring. He picks it up. “Welcome to Brooklyn Omega Free Services, what can I do for you today?”

“I, uh… need to see a doctor about a pregnancy. Um, discreetly?”

“Will you be providing identification today?”

“I’d rather not.”

She smiles at him, pointing to the other side of the room, where a drop slot waits. “For the safety of our employees, doctors, and patients, we ask for a letter of recommendation from a trusted source. This should have been provided to you when you were sent here. Please put that in the slot now.”

“Yeah, I found this place on the internet… So…”

The smile doesn’t waver, her eyes sympathetic. “Are you able to perhaps make a monetary donation or deposit?”

“I can make a donation, yeah.” He crosses to the slot, the phone line stretching out behind him. Clint digs his wallet out, flipping through it before dropping two hundred dollar bills in the slot. “You guys take safety pretty seriously, huh?”

“Not everyone is as trustworthy as they say, and for the sake of our patients we don’t have cameras. You can hang up the phone now and head back outside, I’ll buzz someone down to get you.” She gives him another smile, soft and genuine. “You’ll be noted in our records as 242, should you need further services with us.”

“Thanks.”

He heads outside, fidgeting on the sidewalk until the door beside the front office opens. The person sticks their head out, looking to either side before gesturing him forward slightly. “242?”

“Yeah.”

“Come on upstairs.”

It’s still an apartment building, but rather than dingy walls and old carpeting, it’s clean white tile on all surfaces. Clint follows the doctor--he guesses she’s a doctor, anyways--up to the third floor and down a hallway, into a room marked 336. It’s definitely a modified apartment, and while it’s still somewhat clinical, efforts have been made to make it seem homey. Warm brown carpeting, comfortable couches, potted plants and paintings that exude serenity.

“My name is Doctor Irena Clemson. What can I help you with today? And is there a name that you’d like me to call you, or would you prefer the number?”

“Call me… Francis, I guess.” He rubs his arm, fidgeting, looking around. “I… I’m pregnant. I need to talk about my options.”

“I’m more than happy to discuss those with you. How far along are you?” She takes a seat at a wide desk, flipping open a file and beginning to write.

“Not very. Maybe a month? It’s… Well, it’s complicated.” He shakes his head, sitting down and running his fingers through his hair.

“People rarely come visit us in simple circumstances. I’m going to have to ask some hard questions, but please be honest with me in your answers. None of the information you share leaves this clinic without your fully informed, written consent. Are you bonded?”

“No.”

“Do you know who the father is?”

“Yes.”

“Alpha or Beta?”

“Alpha.”

She hums, tapping her pen lightly. “Is the father still in your life?”

“No, not anymore. He… He died. Th-the day I found out…” He wipes a hand over his face, gritting his teeth against emotion. “I got to tell him that I was pregnant. That was the last thing I told him.”

Doctor Clemson passes over a box of tissues with barely a glance up from her papers. “Were the two of you engaged in a long term, short term, or single instance relationship?”

“Long term, I guess? We were dating for almost a year.”

“Was the pregnancy planned?”

Clint shrugs, looking away. “Not really. Kinda? It’s complicated. I was on suppressors and we were using condoms, but… It wasn’t, like, let’s sit down and talk about having a family planned, but it also wasn’t like oh shit the condom broke unplanned? We didn’t have condoms and decided to take the risk. Sounds stupid when I say it like that...” He adds in a mutter.

“I’m not here to judge you, Francis, just to help. Do you have anyone that can provide emotional support for you at home? You’re unfortunately in a rather… delicate situation. An unbonded pregnancy is difficult to endure and from an Alpha…” She offers him a sad smile. “I’m afraid it may take quite a toll on your health if you choose to follow through.”

“I’m keeping my baby.”

“The only thing I offer is information for you to make an informed choice. Now then.” She rifles through the desk, pulling out some pamphlets. “As noted, termination is an option, but I’ll put that to the bottom of the list. If you have a support network at home, fellow Omegas, or Betas, or Alphas, you may be able to get through this just fine. You seem to be a strong young man. If you’re lacking that support, I can refer you to a service that simulates a bond, however they’ll need quite a bit of personal information to match you to a Beta--and of course, this Beta won’t be your former partner. The simulated bond may not take.”

“What about an actual bond with someone else?”

She frowns, tapping her pen lightly on one of the pamphlets. “That’s a… difficult question to answer, I’m afraid. It may work out in your favor, or it may be… unpleasant. I don’t typically recommend that course of action. Your bondmate may reject the child, provide none of the typical easing of pregnancy that a bond provides. Or your body may choose one over the other. You may lose the pregnancy if the bond takes, or lose the bond if the pregnancy continues and be right back where you are. It _ is _ an option, but it comes with risks.”

It’s the most appealing thus far. He folds his hands between his spread knees, forcing himself to stay calm. “What’s it take to have a successful bond and keep the child?”

Doctor Clemson passes him a pamphlet, the corners of her eyes crinkling with a smile. “Someone close to your Alpha would be best. A close friend or family member. Someone who can be there for you as a mate, while also understanding how your Alpha was there for you. Bonding services make their best efforts to provide based on information you give them, but choosing someone yourself does seem to have a higher success rate.”

“What are the success rates?”

That drops the smile from her face quickly. “There aren’t many studies into this. Certainly nothing to provide concrete numbers. Anecdotal evidence is mostly what we have to go on.”

He closes his eyes, thinking it over carefully. Someone close to Brock… S.T.R.I.K.E. team? Clint shoves the idea aside. They’re all Hydra, according to Nat, and mostly all dead. Nat herself would make a good choice, she’d become friends with Brock over the last year, but she can’t bond. Something the Red Room did to her. There’s Steve, but… when he’d hesitantly mentioned Brock to the man yesterday, his brow had darkened immediately. No. Not Steve, Steve is still too angry about the Hydra thing.

Who else is--was Brock friends with?

“I think… I think I’ll try that. Try to find someone who was close to him. He doesn’t… didn’t have any siblings, but…” Clint shrugs, shifting on the couch. He suddenly wants nothing more than to be out of here, to be back at the farm where he can smell Brock’s lingering scent. Back at Brock’s shitty little studio apartment, face buried in the man’s closet, taking in as much of him as he can. Until he’s full of the scent, until it clings to him and never lets go. “Thank you.”

“If you require further services, I’ve provided a number you can call. We can offer letters of recommendation to other clinics, as well as transfer of your records. You don’t seem to be here because of an abusive or non consensual situation, Francis, so we can also provide records to your primary doctor, if you require those.”

“I… I’ll think about it.”

He makes his escape as quickly as he can, stuffing the pamphlets into his pocket. _ Now _ he can head out of New York, back to DC. Brock’s apartment first, then his own, then the farm. The city is suddenly too much, too many people, the buildings too tall, the air too thick with smells.

He needs the quiet, he needs the solitude, he needs the farm that just smells like him and Brock. Like home.

“You and me against the world now, kiddo,” he murmurs, patting his stomach lightly through his clothes. “I’ll take care of you. Promise.”


	2. (Cutting Me To The Bone) Nothing Left To Leave Behind

He makes it as far as Brock’s apartment. Stepping inside, it all hits him again.

Clint stumbles to the couch, drops down and pulls his knees up to his chest. There’s a pillow against one arm and a blanket stuffed in the corner, and he grabs both of them, breathing in the smell of Brock and holding them close.

The sun is fully set when he pulls himself out of it enough to start moving around, and he flicks the light on. His eyes ache, his lungs burn, his nose is snotty and gross--he’s been crying like an absolute mess. “Omega hormones,” Clint murmurs, half expecting to hear Brock’s laugh behind him. He grasps a hand over the back of his neck, squeezing his bonding gland until it hurts. 

Pain brings focus, at least. Working methodically, Clint starts cleaning out the apartment. Garbage first, the food in the fridge that Brock bought and will never eat. He makes a second pile for all his unopened boxes of pasta and cans of soup, reminds himself to donate those to the food pantry in the next day or so.

Brock’s apartment is damned near spartan, not enough space for clutter to really build up. Clint finds a file in one kitchen drawer, stuffed with papers with different phone numbers. He skims through them until he finds one labeled ‘Mom,’ taking a deep breath. Has anyone told Sylvia Rumlow that her son is dead?

He settles onto the couch again as he dials, holds his phone to his ear and waits. His mom isn’t well, Clint remembers abruptly, a pang of guilt going through him. Maybe she’s gone to bed early. Or moved, and he’s ruining someone else’s night with a phone call at an hour that can only mean bad news.

“Hello?”

“Hi, um… is this Sylvia Rumlow?”

“Are you the cable man? You said you were coming over tomorrow, but the TV isn’t--oh, hang on… Hello?”

Clint breathes in and out slowly, closing his eyes tight. “Sylvia Rumlow?”

“Hello, dear, how are you?”

“I’m… I have some bad news, Mrs. Rumlow.”

“Oh?”

“It’s about your son--”

“What’s Brock done now? When his father gets home, he’s going to tan that boy’s hide. I can’t discipline him, I just--Huh? Oh, Margie, it’s the school calling about Brock again. Yeah, you can talk to them.”

A new voice takes over, low and quiet. “Rumlow residence, how can I help you?”

“I was uh, calling for Sylvia Rumlow. It’s about her son.”

Silence holds on the line long enough that Clint checks to make sure the call is still connected. When the voice--Margie?--comes back, it’s hushed. “She saw the news.”

“I… yeah, it was all over the news. Is she okay?”

“How did you get this number? Are you a reporter? Can’t you leave well enough alone, just this once, and not hurt a poor old woman further--”

“Whoa, whoa. I’m not a reporter. I… Brock and I were… together. My name’s Clint. I found this number in his apartment and… Listen, I know what the news says, but… but I wanted to let his mother know, that wasn’t who he was. Not at all. Her son died trying to save lives, trying to help Captain America stop the attack from happening. Will you tell her that? Tell her that her son died a hero?” Shit, he’s crying again. Clint swallows, trying to keep the emotion out of his voice. “And tell her that he loved his mother very much. He wanted her to have a good life.”

Margie’s voice is softer, less accusatory. “I don’t know how well she’ll understand it, but I’ll tell her. Thank you, Clint.”

He hangs up, dropping onto the couch and curling up. The idea of carrying the trash down to the garbage chute at the end of the hall is suddenly too much. He just wants to envelope himself in Brock’s scent and sleep until the loss stops hurting.

* * *

He does a little better the next morning. Takes out the trash, bags up the donations, looks up a food pantry nearby. With that taken care of, Clint heads back to the apartment and starts on the process of deciding what of Brock’s possessions he should keep or donate. As long as he keeps moving, he finds, it’s a little easier to just do. He doesn’t get constantly overwhelmed with it, with the loss, with the pain, with the knowledge of just what he’s doing and why.

By noon, sweaty and exhausted and raw deep inside, he’s got most everything divided into two distinct piles: things to keep and things to get rid of. The ‘get rid of’ pile is further divided between trash and donations. 

There are other things he could be, should be, doing with his time, but… Clint rests a hand on his stomach, breathing deep. “Smell that, pipsqueak? That’s your daddy. I’m gonna make sure you know who he was. Promise.”

It’s a little too sappy to take a shower and use Brock’s soap, but he does it anyways. Mostly because he’s too sweaty and grimy to go out in public if he doesn’t shower. Mostly.

There’s that file from the drawer, where his mom’s phone number was. Clint takes a seat on the couch, folding his legs under him and starting to flip through it. A few scraps of paper with phone numbers and names--_Rollins, _ one declares, and Clint swallows down the anger that wants to rise, crumpling the note and tossing it aside. Takeout menus, business cards, matchbook covers… Brock’s little drawer of his life, the things he wanted to remember intermixed with the things he forgot to throw away. There’s no way Clint can sort through it with any meaning, but he tries anyways.

His eyes nearly bug out of his head when a business card flutters to the floor and catches his attention, the VA logo and the name Sam Wilson on it. Sam knew Brock? He hadn’t said anything… Then again, no one had really wanted to talk about it except Natasha. Everyone else seemed to believe that he’d been manipulated, used, that Brock had been planning something awful for him.

Clint tucks the card into his pocket, his thumb running over the raised letters on it. He could call Sam… Not even to talk about Brock, just… Sam’s based in DC, it’d be nice to maybe have lunch with someone before going back to the farm and wallowing in his absolute aloneness again.

_ Sam knew Brock_. 

He finishes sorting through the file and pushes most of it into the trash bag, looking around the apartment. Hard to say how long until Brock’s landlord gets a crew in to empty the place unceremoniously into a dumpster, cleans it, and rents it out to someone new. ‘Paid up to the end of the month’ probably doesn’t mean much compared to ‘dead and a terrorist.’ He’ll talk to him.

First, though, he’s going to call Sam. Just to see if he wants to grab lunch somewhere. And if he knows a good place to donate Brock’s things.

* * *

Somehow, Sam is exactly the right person to go to lunch with. He’s happy to talk when Clint goes quiet, but seems to know when silence is better. Asks questions that get Clint thinking about the answers, but doesn’t press for more information than what’s given. Hell, they even laugh a few times, low and easy.

He should feel bad about this, right? Going on with life like everything is normal shouldn’t be this easy.

Okay, so he’s never been good at properly handling emotion. Compartmentalize. It’s what they all do.

“You know,” Sam starts, taking another sip from his drink, “you could come down to the VA sometime. There’s support groups that might be easier to talk to.”

“I was never a soldier, Sam.”

“Okay, so really I just wanna prove that I’m friends with the Avengers to the cute girl at the front desk.” He grins, nodding. “Last time Steve came down there, she said afterwards that I found a good Captain America impersonator, but not a perfect one. Said his ass wasn’t right. Who spends that much time staring at Captain America’s ass?”

_ America’s Ass Man_, he hears himself say, sitting close to Brock at the karaoke bar. Clint looks down, shrugging. “I’ll think about it.”

“Offer’s always open, man.” Sam’s smile is softer, more genuine. “You doin’ okay? I know no one in New York really wanted to talk about it, but… It isn’t something you have to process alone, if you need some help.”

“I’m working on it. I’ve been over at his place since I got back into town… Being there, smelling him on everything, it’s like he’s not really gone, you know?” Clint scrubs a hand against his face, looking up at the ceiling. “So I guess that’s denial, right?”

“Don’t feel like you have to follow some psychological roadmap for it. Some things will hurt more, some will be easier to bear. Some of it you’ll be able to shoulder on your own, other stuff is gonna feel like it’s crushing you. I lost my wingman, Riley, over in Afghanistan… The hardest thing for me was comin’ back home. I almost didn’t get on the plane and when it landed back on US soil, I almost didn’t get off it. It was like… like if I stayed over there, I could just pretend like time wasn’t passing.” Sam shrugs, reaching over and touching his hand lightly. “Sometimes it’s just one weird little thing that you get stuck up on, and you need someone else there to show you how to take that next step. Don’t be afraid to ask for help.”

_ Sam ran into him on the forty-first floor_, Natasha whispers in his head. Clint grits his teeth together, swallowing it down. He turns his hand under Sam’s, giving him a brief squeeze. “Thanks. I found your number at his place, you know. You two knew each other?”

“We both liked to jog the mall loop early in the morning, usually kept pace with each other. Talked sometimes after we were done. He always seemed like a pretty decent guy.” There’s something in those words, something in the way Sam suddenly won’t meet his eyes. Clint watches his face closely. “Sure didn’t act like a… Like what Hydra was.”

“He wasn’t. I mean, not… not at the end.” Clint shoves the thoughts aside, trying for a smile instead. “Hey, anywhere you can think that could benefit from some donations? I’ve got a lot of his kitchen stuff and his TV that I don’t need. Hate to throw away perfectly good stuff like that. Preferably somewhere close by, unless you know someone that’s willing to drive me around town.” There’s Brock’s pick-up truck, he could load that up and drive it. How different can a truck be from a plane or helicopter?

Sam looks away for a moment, before turning back with a smile. “I can think of a few places. I’ll get you some addresses.”

He’s not the physically affectionate type normally, but Clint lets Sam envelope him in a hug after lunch. He holds on to the other man, closing his eyes tightly for a minute. “Thanks.”

“Don’t be a stranger.”

* * *

Clint lets himself into his own apartment with a sigh, hoping against hope that he won’t be assaulted with memories as soon as he steps inside. Every place he goes is going to be like this, but he really would rather just pack his shit and get to the farm instead of spending two days alternating between manic organization and intense sobbing.

Natasha’s sitting on his couch, doing a crossword puzzle, dressed up in a sharp business suit with her hair in a fancy up-do. “Hey.”

“I never gave you a key.”

She shrugs. “Four letter word, _ carnivorous Esox_.”

“I definitely changed my locks, too.”

“Oh, pike. Yeah, that makes sense.”

Clint drops to the couch next to her, setting his head on her shoulder. “Don’t break in here anymore. I’m terminating my lease and going to live at the farm full time.”

Finally, she folds the crossword aside, stroking a hand through his hair. “You didn’t leave New York right away.”

“Nat, has anyone ever told you that _ stalking _ and _ concerned _ aren’t synonyms?”

“No, should they? Do you need me to drive you out to the farm?”

He closes his eyes, curling up against her. “Can you? I don’t feel like trying to load all this into the ‘copter. We can take Brock’s truck.”

“Tomorrow, then. For tonight… You look exhausted. How long has it been since you ate?”

“I had lunch with Sam.” He thinks about it for a moment. “Yesterday.”

“Clint.”

“Tasha.”

Her fingers flick his nose lightly, before she stands, moving to the kitchen and digging through the few food items he still has in his cupboards. The only reason he’s kept this place is that his lease isn’t up yet. End of the month, he was planning to be out of here anyways. It’s mostly just been a place to sleep when he was staying in the city, larger than Brock’s apartment, closer to the Triskelion.

“You don’t have to go it alone, you know. You have friends, Clint.”

He curls up on the couch, tugging the collar of his t-shirt up over his nose. It’s technically Brock’s shirt, still smells like him. Clint figures he might be able to sleep with it on. “I know. I just… I wanted some time to process. And I wanted to know about my options.”

It’s easier to talk to Natasha. She doesn’t walk on eggshells. She’s sympathetic in a way that doesn’t feel pitying. She just… gets him, in a way no one else ever has. No one but Brock has even come close. Hell, even Coulson didn’t quite sync up with Clint in the same way.

By the time they finish eating, he’s almost positive he can get some real sleep. “Are you staying in town tonight?”

Natasha fixes him with a flat look. “Don’t ask stupid questions. I’ll probably have another senate hearing to go lie to tomorrow.”

“You could come out to the farm with me, you know. Cell reception out there is terrible and now that Fury’s ‘dead,’ no one but us even knows where it is.”

“It’ll be time for me to disappear soon. Maybe I’ll turn up then.” She helps him off the couch and into bed, changes into a pair of his sweat pants and an old t-shirt before joining him. Once more, Natasha’s arms wrap around his middle, her body pressed warm to his back. “Clint, you know I’m here for you.”

“I know.”

“The rest of the team is, too. You can talk to any of us.”

He sighs, settling his hand over hers. “I know. But the more I talk about it… the more real it is. Every time I talk about him in the past tense, it… It hurts all over, Nat. And every time I try to think about the future, think more than two feet in front of me, all I wanna do is crumple to the ground and break.” Clint squirms back against her, squeezing his eyes shut against the burn of tears. “The clinic suggested that I bond with a friend of his or a family member. He doesn’t have any family. And his friends? Most of them are dead, the rest are Hydra, and the few that are neither seem to hate him because they think he betrayed them. None of them will be able to bond with me _ and _ love the baby. I’m not putting this last piece of Brock at risk with it.”

“I should have told them sooner. Sam and Steve, I should have told them that Rumlow had flipped to our side. I didn’t think it’d be mission relevant, and he hadn’t told me what he planned to do after Hydra fell… Didn’t want to risk him getting caught before the end.” She kisses his shoulder, humming softly. “I’m sorry, Clint.”

“It’s not your fault. We all know the risks when we sign up for the dangerous shit. Let’s just… Let’s just clean this up. Get rid of whatever pieces of Hydra are left. Now that there’s no S.H.I.E.L.D. to put me on medical leave, I can get back to ass kicking full time. At least until I’m too pregnant to run.” He snorts, shaking his head. “Wouldn’t that be a sight, me waddling into battle with my baby belly leading the charge.”

Natasha snickers behind him. “I would pay real, actual money to see that, Clint.”

Maybe their coping mechanisms are terrible, but at least they work. A little bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure y'all don't really care about this, but I watch Critical Role on Thursday nights and don't work on Fridays, and uh  
Making sure I wake up in time to post without an alarm clock is Stressful (tm)
> 
> (Any fellow Critters out there? It's 3am and I just finished episode 86 and I am Yelling.)


	3. Might Be A Battle (Might Not Turn Out Okay)

He starts talking to himself.

That’s normal.

Out at the farm, mostly, Clint finds himself speaking out loud despite the welcome solitude. Sometimes it’s to the baby growing inside him. Sometimes it’s to Brock. Sometimes it’s to no one in particular, just to break up the silence of nature with a human voice. 

A sane person would probably just get a radio, but he’s never claimed to be sane.

“I think I’m gonna start gardening. How’s that for some domestic Omega bull, huh, Brock? But if I grow carrots and, I dunno, peas and stuff, I can make my own baby food. Then again… We’ve been taking down Hydra bases all over the world on an almost weekly basis, I don’t think the plants would be too happy with me.” He walks through the grass as he talks, carefully clearing the field. There’s a lot of land here, he’s going to put in an airstrip and an archery range soon. He and Brock had talked about turning the barn into a home gym, too, he might do that.

“Nat’s coming to visit this weekend, if we don’t get called in for another job. She asked if she could bring Sam with her, says he was asking after me. I…” Clint hesitates, looking around and lowering his voice. “I kinda like him. We’ve been getting together whenever I’m in DC. It’s casual. And I went to a couple of support groups at the VA, kinda… hung out in the back. Did you know there’s a whole group for Omegas who lost their bondmates in the war? Even if they’re not veterans… Granted, we weren’t mates, so the VA medical stuff doesn’t apply to me, but Tony’s taking care of me. Has me on SI payroll as ‘private security,’ hah.”

Okay, so he talks to himself a lot. Every day, multiple times a day. It’s fine. He’s fine.

The upstairs bedrooms both have south facing windows. The one closer to the master bedroom also has a west facing window. The one closer to the stairs has an east facing. Clint paces between the otherwise identical rooms, a tablet in his hand with a home decor app opened on it. “Okay, seriously, help me out here. Baby’s room, east window or west window? I wanna say west because it’s closer to the bedroom, but there is _ no _ cover through that window. The south and east sides of the house at least have trees on them…” He sets his hand over his stomach, where the faintest trace of a curve is just starting to show. Three months along and despite not having a bondmate, despite the baby’s father not being in his life, he’s doing well. Physically. “_One _ of you has to make this decision for me, okay?”

The sound of a car catches his ear and he peeks out the east window, down the long dirt driveway. That’s Natasha, he recognizes the flashy red sports car anywhere. Clint sets the tablet aside, making his way downstairs and out onto the front porch. He waves as she pulls up, feeling a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth when Sam gets out of the passenger seat. “You didn’t blindfold him? Come on, this is supposed to be a secret hideout!”

“Very funny.” Sam crosses the driveway, climbs the steps and envelopes him in a warm hug. “So, this is the super secret farm, huh? Gotta admit, it’s very…” He flinches and ducks as a horsefly buzzes past his head. “Uh, nature-y.”

“Well, come on inside before some of that nature gets on you, cityslicker. Let this country bumpkin introduce you to some sweet iced tea,” Clint teases, letting his voice drag out in a drawl.

Natasha snorts as she mounts the steps, giving him a brief hug before letting herself in. “You know the worst thing about your house, Barton? It’s two and a half hours to the nearest nasty gas station bathroom.”

Clint holds the door for Sam, leading him inside and guiding him around in the brief tour. They end out on the screen porch with Natasha, where she’s already got the pitchers of iced tea and lemonade, setting out glasses full of ice with them. Clint drops onto the couch, patting the spot next to him for Sam without a second thought. “I was on a job in Kabul when this place came onto the market, sent Brock out here on his day off to take a look at it. I bought it pretty much sight unseen and have been fixing it up for like a year and a half now. I’ve got the before video on my phone, I’ll show it to you sometime.” He watches that video a lot, late at night when he can’t sleep. Listens to Brock’s voice bitching about what a death trap the house is. Skips to the end, when he flips the camera over to himself and his grin. 

It’s one of the few recordings of Brock’s voice he has.

With an effort, he pushes himself into the present, into the conversation. He’s been acting mostly by rote for the last couple of months, no one wanting to push him for too much, too soon. Go out with the team, do a job. Come back to DC, meet up with Sam for an hour or a few days. Head back to the farm and putter around until either the next job or Natasha comes to visit. He’s not opposed to hanging out with the others, but sometimes the pitying looks they give him (especially Steve, who looks at him like he still believes Brock was just using him) are too much. “Wait, so we think there’s a lead on Loki’s scepter?”

“Sitwell took it after New York, but before we could get any information about it out of him, the Winter Soldier threw him into an oncoming truck.”

“That was a crazy day,” Sam adds in, carefully mixing a ratio of lemonade into his iced tea.

“Was that before or after you made out with Steve?” Clint asks, trying his best to keep his face innocent. He’s never letting her live that down. Never. “And you never did confirm nor deny if you grabbed that perfect, perfect ass in the process.” His face cracks into a helpless teasing smile.

“I don’t play grabass in public and tell, Barton, unlike _ some _ of our colleagues.” Natasha fixes him with wide, innocent eyes, before she snorts into her hand. “That was the day before the Insight launch and S.H.I.E.L.D. collapse. Tony’s been digging in the files I put online, but so far all our leads have turned up cold.”

“Familiar story.” Sam sits back, sipping his concoction. “Steve’s got me digging around for Barnes while he’s off avenging. I don’t mind pushing papers normally, but I never signed up to be a ghost hunter.”

“At least you can fly. I’m fuckin’ around against aliens with a bow and arrow.” Clint grins, leaning into Sam just a bit. “Hey, speaking of, if you wanna get some sky time without being bothered by the FAA, I’m gonna put in a little private airport out here.”

“You know, I might just take you up on that.”

He can feel Natasha’s gaze on him, the little upturn of her mouth. She’d had the same look whenever she’d seen him getting close with Brock. Her version of approval. 

It’s not like he’s moving on so soon, though, right? They’re just friends.

They move inside eventually, make dinner and eat at the kitchen island. Clint glances over his shoulder to the dining room, shaking his head. “You know, I went through all the trouble of making that a proper dining room and now I’m wondering if I should close up the wall again, turn it into some sort of office.”

“I think it’d cut into the entertainment flow. If anything, build an office off the side of the living room. Or convert one of the rooms upstairs?” Sam suggests, glancing at the ceiling.

Nat’s the only one who knows about the baby. The only one he’s dared to tell. There’s no question about the father, after all, and given the team’s current feelings towards his recent relationship… Clint shrugs, poking at his salad, his appetite suddenly gone. “It’s possible.”

Natasha saves him from further thought along that line. “How’s the workshop coming along?”

That’s much easier to talk about, conversation flowing freely among them again. The workshop down in the basement, his own miniscule version of Stark’s labs. Tony might be the engineering genius, but the man doesn’t understand archery for shit. Clint’s been building his own arrows since he was thirteen and sharpening sticks with a pocket knife to practice shooting. It’s no wonder he’s gotten creative with all his free time.

It’s late by the time they call it a day, late enough that were it just Natasha, he’d simply invite her to stay the night. Maybe he should put ‘spare bedroom’ higher on the priority list.

Clint walks them to the door, fighting down a yawn on the way, leaning a little heavier on Sam than strictly necessary. “Thanks for coming out. You can come by anytime you want. Don’t bother calling first, phone reception out here is basically nonexistent.” Aside from the satellite line that he’d installed, linked to the Tower in New York, but that number is strictly for emergencies only.

“Just take a quick little four hour jaunt into the middle of nowhere, right?” Sam grins, patting his back lightly. “I’ll come visit when I can.”

Natasha hugs him tight, leaning in and speaking low in his ear. “West facing windows for her bedroom.”

He snorts, squeezing her a little closer. “Yes, ma’am.”

Once the headlights disappear from the driveway, Clint heads back inside. He drops onto the couch, patting his stomach lightly. “You like him, kiddo? I kinda like him. Your daddy liked him. Sam’s a good guy. A good friend. Make a good bondmate for someone, one day, you know? Take good care of his partner…” He smiles, head tipping back. “He’s good at carin’ about people.”

* * *

“I think we lost the element of surprise.”

It’s not the biggest clusterfuck he’s ever been involved in, and to be fair to the Hydra goons currently shooting at them with cutting edge weaponry, when all six of them are together and Bruce has gone fully green, there’s little option besides full out assault.

That doesn’t mean he can’t stealth, however. On a field with enhanced soldiers, flying suits of armor, a demigod, and a big green guy, no one pays much attention to the guy running around with a bow and arrow. A few of them take potshots at him, but Clint ducks himself behind a tree, setting up his line of sight on the next defensive bunker.

Tony’s working infiltration and retrieval, the rest of them are basically the distraction. Keep the ground forces lining up for the slaughter and let the brains play with the fun toys inside. 

Clint ducks around the tree, lining up his shot with one of his old standbys: exploding arrows. He’s already taken down one bunker with a well-placed shot into the firing window. As long as they can clear the heavy artillery, they can sweep up the rest easily.

He fires, pulls himself back and counts. Three, two, one… Clint frowns, head jerking up. No explosion? He glances over his shoulder, whipping around the tree on the other side and lining up another shot. He didn’t miss, he never misses, must have been a faulty arrow (he doesn’t have those either, but--but nothing, _ focus, Barton_).

Something hits him like a truck, knocks him off his feet and into the snow. Clint groans, looking over his shoulder, one hand still gripping his bow, the other already on his boot knife. People think he can’t do close quarters and that’s their mistake.

It’s a kid, striding across the battlefield with confidence, his steps easy in the crunching snow. “You didn’t see that coming?”

Before Clint can get to his feet, the kid’s gone, off in a blur of speed. Enhanced. Strucker’s experiments. He aims anyways, narrows his focus and--

And forgets about the bunker.

The shot hits his side, low, arcs through his stomach and puts him on the ground. He grits his teeth against the pain, trying to keep breathing.

“Clint!”

Natasha’s over him, gauze on the wound. She was nowhere near him when he got hit, he’d been circling left and she’d been in the middle of the frontal assault. He’s losing time. Not great.

His hand grabs her arm before she can inject him with the sedative, squeezing with what strength he has. “Nat…”

“I know.” 

For a while, he swims in the dark.

* * *

Consciousness doesn’t come with pain, but Clint groans anyways. Opening his eyes seems like more effort than it’s worth, but--

Stomach shot.

World is silent.

He’s cold.

Clint opens his eyes with a gasp, darting his gaze around, one hand already going for his belt. It’s caught before he can get there, fingers on his. Familiar fingers, spelling out familiar letters against his palm.

_ S-A-F-E_.

“Nat?” He might whisper or shout, he can’t tell. There’s no sound. His gaze slides over and he finds her, finds the small frown of concern on her face. 

She holds up her hands, signing as she speaks. “Had to take them out for an MRI. You’re okay. Relax?”

“The… The baby?” His hand moves, starts towards his stomach before she catches it again.

“Doctor is taking care of you. She’s fine.”

Clint’s eyes slide around the room, spotting a familiar form leaning over the machine that he’s half inside of. He lifts his hand in a little wave to Doctor Cho, offering a crooked smile. “Am I your test dummy?”

Natasha hands him back his hearing aids and he pops them in, relaxing further to finally have sound in the world again. The machine over his stomach hums like a printer, stitching his skin back together. “You’re turning me into plastic.”

“Not at all, Mr. Barton. The machine replicates your own cells and heals them. When it’s finished, even your bondmate wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.”

“Don’t have a bondmate.” He tucks one arm behind his head, rubbing his tongue over his teeth. “Ugh, cottonmouth. I hate sedatives.”

“Tony’s bringing you a drink.” Natasha leans closer, her voice low. “The team knows. Sorry.”

“They were gonna find out sooner or later.” He rolls his eyes towards the door as it opens, offers Tony a crooked smile as he takes the drink from him.

“Oh, he’s not gonna make it. Better call it, doc.” Tony takes a seat on Clint’s other side, sipping his own drink. “So, how long you been fightin’ for two, Barton?”

“A few months now.”

“Rumlow’s?”

Clint looks away, breathing slowly for a moment. “Yeah.”

“You got a good doctor down in DC? You know, doing all the vitamins and stuff?”

“Yes, Tony, I have that all taken care of. Contrary to popular belief, I _ am _ an adult.” He sighs, turning his head back to Tony. “Sorry, it’s just… A touchy subject.”

“Hey, I’m just looking out for a friend. Cap’s the one getting all aggressive and Alpha about it.” Tony pats his arm lightly. “I’ll try to keep him off your back until you can get back to DC, but… Well. Alphas.”

“He thinks Rumlow forced you,” Natasha adds, her arms crossed. “And if not forced, manipulated. Unfortunately you say ‘this guy was Hydra’ and the rest of it doesn’t really make it into his brain.”

Clint closes his eyes, sighing. “Thanks, you two. I’ll handle it.”

“There is… one more thing.” Tony stands up, pacing the room as he speaks. “It’s been recommended that we take you off active until after the baby is born. We got our hands on the scepter and Thor’s pretty eager to get it back to Asgard, but he’s agreed to let us play with it for a couple of days. Strucker had two enhanced in his facility, the one that hit you and another one, a mind manipulator.” Something flashes in Tony’s eyes, there and gone in an instant. “We’re hoping we can find a way to undo whatever the scepter did to them.”

“Did you catch them?”

Natasha shakes her head. “They ran out of there before we even realized what they were. Found their files on the computer. Maximoff, Wanda and Pietro. Twins from Sokovia.”

“The upside is that we _ think _ that was the last all-hands-on-deck encounter with Hydra we’re going to have. The scepter was really their last card, anything else is just clean up duty. So, you won’t be missing the action while you’re off playing house.”

“If that was supposed to reassure me of something, Stark, it really didn’t work.”

“Aw, don’t worry, Feathers. There’s always another bad guy that you can go after.” Tony claps him on the shoulder, heading out of the room.

It takes another half hour, mostly spent chatting with Natasha and Doctor Cho, but when Clint’s allowed to sit up, he’s good as new. No scars, no pain. He rubs a hand against the new skin, trailing it over to his stomach. Being benched again so soon after getting back into the fray is like a nightmare, but… But for his baby, he’ll accept it.

One close call is more than enough.

* * *

Leave it to Tony Stark to decide that the best course of action after an intense fight is a swanky party. Clint settles himself on a couch between Doctor Cho--Helen, now that she’s not overseeing her machine putting him back together--and Maria Hill, one arm slung over the back of the sofa. He’s banned from the bar now that his secret is out, but at least Tony’s classy enough to provide NA beer instead of forcing him to drink virgin cocktails.

“Barton.” One of Thor’s big hands claps onto his shoulder and Clint tilts his head back, looking up. “I’m told that you’re with child. Congratulations and celebration are in order.”

“Oh, god, please don’t--”

“Nonsense! It’s only right to offer a proper Asgardian blessing for the occasion.” His voice booms out like thunder, silencing other conversation, drawing attention to the man seated on the couch. “We have an expectant mother in our midst, everyone! We must bestow him with gifts on this occasion!” Thor grins crookedly, sliding a ring off his finger and dropping it into Clint’s hand. “I give a ring of uru and ruby, for fertility.”

“Save me,” he whispers to the women on either side of him, trying to shove the ring back at Thor. 

It’s too late, however, others filing up, rifling through their pockets for gifts. By the time Thor walks away, Clint has a small pile of cash on his lap, a few pieces of random jewelry, and a hat that declares him a World War II veteran. He makes a note to return that to the old man that gave it to him. 

Hill snickers into her cocktail, leaning forward and picking up a napkin from the table, using a pen to jot down a phone number. She passes it to him, attempting to keep a straight face, her voice serious. “I bestow upon you the phone number for my therapist, because I’ve never met anyone who needs therapy as much as you, Barton.”

“You’re terrible. All of you are the worst.” Clint groans, dropping back and stuffing the cash into his pockets. Free money is free money, even if it comes at the cost of his dignity. He turns the ring Thor gave him, shrugging as he slips it onto his middle finger. The hat he settles onto Helen Cho’s head with a wink. “Best lookin’ World War II vet here, Doc.”

“I have to agree there.” Steve takes a seat across from them, giving the ladies a nod. “Ladies. Mind giving us a minute? I heard I was supposed to give Clint a gift.”

He turns his attention to Steve as the women vacate, one hand going to the back of his neck before he can stop it. “You don’t have to--”

“He was using you, you know that right? Using you to keep our guard down, to keep me and Romanoff from looking too deeply into Project Insight. Whatever sweet lies he sold you were just that, lies.”

Clint rolls his eyes, wishing that Steve would at least _ sound _ like an asshole about it. If he didn’t sound so sincere, so genuinely sorry to have to break this news, it’d be easier. “Of course that’s what you think, because the only thing you hear is that he worked for Hydra--”

“Clint, I read the files. You were a _ mission _ for him. Getting you to their side was the goal. He’s the one that suggested you be taken off active duty and kept off suppressors so that he could get you alone and get you in the family way.”

_ In the family way_, a bit of Steve’s old fashioned slipping into the conversation. Clint latches onto it, his jaw clenching. Where the hell is Tony? He promised to keep Steve off Clint’s back. “And I suppose that in the world you live in, people can’t change, huh? Come on, Steve, I’m not some innocent little lamb led astray by the lion. I’ve done things that are just as bad as any of the people we’ve taken down, but you overlook that because by the time we met, I was doing them for people you agree with.” His arm wraps around his stomach without thought, protective. “And how about who I was before then? You looked into the files, did you just decide to ignore anything you didn’t like? Lemme tell it to you in a way you can’t ignore, Cap: I was a killer before S.H.I.E.L.D. and a killer with S.H.I.E.L.D. and I’m _ still _ a killer with the Avengers. I’m here to do the dirty work that your sparkling reputation won’t allow. Guess that makes me as bad as the enemy and you better lock me up so I can face justice, huh?”

“It’s different.”

“How is it different?”

Steve flounders for a moment, searching for the words. His gaze settles on Clint again and _ damn him_, he can’t even pretend to be angry, he just looks so _ sympathetic_. “You’re not Hydra, Clint. You’re not trying to bend the world to your will. You aren’t… taking away people’s lives to make them what you want.” Steve looks away first, pushing himself to his feet. “I’m just trying to help you realize what he actually did to you.” He walks away, leaving Clint alone on the couch.

“He loved me,” he murmurs, tilting his head down, speaking to himself. “He loved me. That’s what he did to me.”

He doesn’t see Steve again until after things wind down, most of the guests seeing themselves out. Slowly, a group settles on the couches, finishing drinks and laughing. The team, plus Maria Hill, Helen Cho, Rhodey, and Sam. Clint grits his teeth as Steve takes a seat on the couch with him, but before he has to find a way to subtly move across the room, preferably into Natasha’s protection, Sam plops down between the two of them.

“So, I hear Captain Wholesome over here wants everyone to watch their language.” He grins, dropping an empty mason jar onto the table in front of everyone. _ Steve’s Swear Jar _ is penned across the lid, with a second piece of paper hastily taped to the side, denoting censored cuss words and their monetary cost. “Well, allow me to be the first to christen this fuckin’ thing with my money.” Sam produces a crisp five dollar bill from his wallet, carefully folding it and sticking it into the jar.

Tony laughs from across the couch, pulling out a bill and holding it up. A hundred dollars. “How many fucks do I get for this?”

“Nineteen now.” Natasha snickers, taking a sip of her drink. “Should make a rule that you can’t make change out of the swear jar.”

“Come on, you guys, it just slipped out. I don’t give a damn if you swear--” Steve’s half-exasperated complaints are interrupted by fake gasping from the opposite side of the table, turning into laughter as Sam spins the jar around.

“Of course, it’s only fair, Cap, that if _ you _ swear… You’ve gotta pay double. Fifty cents, buddy, pony up,” Sam explains

Steve grumbles good-naturedly, taking a dollar out of his pocket, glancing at the jar. “You’re a pain in my ass, Wilson.” He crams the bill inside, pushing the jar towards Tony.

It’s moderately full before long, everyone purposely slipping curse words into their conversation, just to let the others feign horror as they’re forced to pay into the jar. 

When they actually call it a night, the late hour starting to chase everyone to bed, Sam catches Clint by the arm. He gives him a little smile, jerking his head towards the other side of the room.

Clint follows, fighting down a yawn. Tomorrow’s going to come early and he’s not looking forward to the train ride back to DC. Maybe he should steal Tony’s helicopter again, fly himself straight to the farm. “What’s up?”

“I heard you were expecting, and we’re supposed to give you gifts--”

“Sam, you really don’t have to--”

Sam holds up a finger, leaning in and kissing his forehead lightly. “For luck. Can’t be easy, doing this on your own, so if you need anything--_anything_\--don’t hesitate to call me, okay?”

He closes his eyes for a moment, before nodding. “Do I have to call if you’re right in front of me?”

Sam’s fingers brush his cheek gently, his voice low. “Just tell me what you need, Clint.”

His heart shouldn’t be hammering in his chest like this, his hands shouldn’t be trying to tremble. He reaches up, setting his fingers gently over Sam’s, leaning into his warm palm. “Stay with me tonight?”

Three months isn’t enough time to get over it, to move on, but--but he _ needs _ someone. Someone that can make him feel warm and secure and cared for. 

Settled into bed, Sam’s body curled around him, arms holding him close, Clint feels the tension ebb out of him. He leans back, breathing slowly. “Thanks.”

“I meant it when I said anything, Clint.” Lips brush his shoulder lightly through his t-shirt, pressing a little more firmly for just a moment.

It’s the easiest he’s slept in too long. The last time… he doesn’t want to think about the last time he slept with Brock at his back. Not when Sam’s there.


	4. (Like A Moth Getting Trapped In The) Flames Of Fixation

Time passes.

It doesn’t make it hurt less, but it changes the hurt. It fades from the sharp ache of loss to something almost tolerable. He lies in bed, still wearing Brock’s shirt, and strokes his growing belly, whispering stories of his Alpha to their baby. Sometimes he watches the video of Brock touring the house, sometimes he looks through his phone at the stupid selfies he’d taken on their dates. The ones of them at karaoke are some of his favorites, four smiling idiots belting along with Queen or Journey or Celene Dion (like _ anyone _ can do her justice). Clint smiles at these, and sometimes he doesn’t cry afterwards.

Sometimes Natasha comes over and stays the night with him, her arms around him or his around her, depending on who’s had the worse week. She fills him in on official Avengers business when she visits: their search for the Maximoff twins; the Hydra bases they’ve taken down; Tony’s progress on their equipment upgrades. She’s carefully neutral when he asks about Steve, which says more than enough. Captain America still thinks he was used, forced. Still thinks he’s not smart enough to smell danger on someone.

The best days are when Sam comes over. The landing strip in the back of the house is done and while it’s probably a poor use of top secret equipment, Sam still takes the time to fly out and visit him whenever the wings need some testing. He takes Clint up with him a few times, arms secured around him. Never too high off the ground or for too long, the wingsuit certainly wasn’t designed for two--or three--but the rush of flying in open air is something he could get used to. Sam spends the night, more often than not, holds him close and talks low in his ear about everything and nothing.

Clint hates how much he loves those nights, when he doesn’t even dream about Brock.

* * *

Tony wants him to come test equipment before he gets too far along. Clint heaves a sigh like a break in the monotony is _ really _ a bother and makes his way to New York.

Even a genius billionaire inventor knows better than to mess with his weapons, so a new bow and new arrows are out of the question. What Tony has to offer is armor, a utility belt, and a new quiver. He talks a mile a minute about fabrication and multi-use items and definitely doesn’t explain how he got Clint’s measurements while the archer tries the new gear on. He loads a few practice arrows into the quiver, slinging it over his shoulder and letting Tony fuss and adjust it.

Hands linger on his stomach, the curve of his growing baby just noticeable on such close contact. Four months along, according to the doctor he’ll start really showing soon. Tony glances up at him, his face suddenly serious. “Just wondering… Have you thought about the a-word?”

“Absolutely not, Stark. This baby is the last piece of Brock I have left, I’m not getting an abortion--”

“I meant adoption. God, the other one didn’t even cross my mind. I just mean…” He shrugs, looking away. “If you didn’t want to raise it, adoption would be a good idea. I can think of a good home already.”

“Yeah?” There’s no way he’s giving up his baby, but he can read it in Tony’s face, this is a subject he’s been trying to find a way to bring up. Doesn’t hurt to hear him out.

“Yeah. Mine.” Tony taps his chest lightly, right over where the ARC reactor used to glow. “I can’t have kids. Pepper wants kids. Rhodey won’t mind if we adopt. If you need somewhere that yours will be safe, and taken care of, where you can still visit… We’d take it.”

He closes his eyes, shaking his head quickly. “I have somewhere safe. I have someone who can help out.”

“You don’t have a bondmate, Clint.”

“Thanks, I hadn’t noticed that he _ died_.” He meets Tony’s eyes again, sighing. “Sorry. It’s… I talked to a clinic about it, early on. It’s not impossible to have a baby without a bondmate, without the father in your life. Difficult, but that’s par for the course with me.” Clint shrugs, looking away again. “The clinic said that another Alpha might not accept the baby, that I could lose the bond, or worse lose the pregnancy. The best option is someone close to the father, like a sibling. Except Brock didn’t have any siblings.”

Tony nods slowly, standing up straight. “If you need any help, the team is here for you. _ I’m _ here for you.” He slaps Clint on the shoulder, grinning. “Now, show off how cool my enhancements to your usual style are.”

“Meant to ask, Stark--why are they purple?” He grins back, drawing over his shoulder and firing down the range. “That’s not much of a battlefield color.”

“Well, Romanoff already has ‘blood of your enemies red,’ so I went with the signature ‘killed by a man wearing purple’.” Not even hesitation, damn him.

The thought lingers in his head long after he leaves the Tower. He’s been doing okay these last few months, on his own. Sometimes it hurts, but there hasn’t been anything in his physicals to indicate a problem. Clint rubs a hand over his stomach, tilting his head back on the headrest as the train takes him south. Would a bond make that easier? Or would it cause too many problems?

He doesn’t want to take a shot unless he’s sure, just like at the range.

Calm, clear-headed decisions are the way to do this.

Life in a series of archery metaphors.

* * *

He feels the scream in his throat even when he doesn’t hear it. Clint rolls out of bed and to the floor on his hands and knees, panting. A moment later another wave of agony passes through him and he clutches his stomach, tears filling his eyes.

“Sam!”

Hands in his peripheral, big warm hands holding his hearing aids out to him. Clint takes them, puts them in and hears himself sobbing.

“Clint, talk to me.”

“Hurts,” he wheezes out, holding his stomach, trying to get upright and not pitch forward right onto the floor. Sam’s warm body slips in front of him, lifting him up slightly, and most of his weight falls on the other man immediately. “Fuck, the baby--something’s wrong with the baby…”

“Easy, easy…” Those big warm hands run down his back and come back up his sides, soothing the tremors that rip through him with the next wave of pain. He’s only six months in, this can’t be pre-labor. It can’t. “Breathe for me, Clint.”

His next inhale-exhale is a little less ragged, but it still trembles on the verge of a sob. Another wave of agony passes through him and settles low in his stomach, a rotten ache that makes him want to throw up. “Hospital…” They’re nowhere near a hospital, nowhere near help that can be there in time. He shakes his head, trying to push himself up. “No--bathroom. Gotta… Gotta check…” Please, not that. Anything else but that. Don’t let him lose his baby.

Unsteady, leaning heavier on Sam than his own feet, Clint gets up. He practically falls into the bathroom, managing to lean himself on the sink. Without preamble or shame, he shoves his pants and underwear down, squeezing his eyes shut. “Is there--is there anything? Blood?”

Sam’s still bracing him up, but one hand moves down, carefully lifting the edge of his t-shirt to get a clear view. Sam breathes slowly behind him, giving nothing away with his body language. “There’s nothing, Clint.”

“_Check_.”

The hand on his shirt lets go, moves down and touches the back of his thigh gently before sliding between his legs, brushing against him. The fingers withdraw after a moment, and Sam kisses his shoulder soothingly. “Nothing. Clint, there’s nothing there.”

Slowly, he opens his eyes, staring at himself in the mirror. He looks like he’s been through the ringer, cheeks hollow, eyes sunken and red-rimmed, dark circles under them. His skin is too pale, his hair disheveled with sweat. He glances back to Sam, sees the man hold up a clean hand. “Why’s it hurt so much?”

Sam’s mouth moves up his shoulder, lips pressing a barely there kiss to the side of his neck. “Your bonding gland is swollen.”

He clenches the edge of the sink when Sam moves away, another wave of pain rolling through him. “W-wait, go back…”

It eases up with lips pressed to his neck, the agony fading to a low ache, like a healing bruise. Clint slowly releases the countertop, reaching up and finding Sam’s hands, guiding them to his stomach. “Sam, do you… Do you love us? Me and the baby?”

Dark eyes meet his in the mirror, holding his gaze for a long second. “I do.”

“The doc--the one at the clinic I went to, don’t remember if I told you that I went there--said that I could still bond, but it’d take, make the pregnancy easier, not…” He swallows, squeezing Sam’s hands, “not make me lose the baby, if the person I bonded with was someone who knew the father. You and Brock were friends. Do you love us even though this is his baby?”

“Yes, Clint.” He laces his fingers with Clint’s, rubbing his stomach gently. “I love you, I love the baby, and I want to take care of both of you.”

“We should… We should bond.”

Sam kisses the back of his neck gently, right over his bonding gland. “I didn’t want to ask, wasn’t sure if it would hurt you. Do you want to right now?”

His smile is a little weak, a little watery. That should be Brock’s mark on him, Brock’s life forever entwined with his… In a perfect world.

The world has never been perfect for Clint Barton, however. If it was, he wouldn’t be having one of the most important conversations of his life in a bathroom at three in the morning. “It’s not just because of Brock. I like you, Sam, and the more I get to know you, the more that like turns into love.” He squeezes Sam’s hands gently, meeting his eyes in the mirror again. “But uh maybe we do this in bed and not the bathroom, yeah?”

Another kiss to the back of his neck makes his knees weak with relief, rather than pain. “Yeah, Clint. In bed.”

It’s easy, after that. He lies down with Sam, feeling the ache recede from his stomach, feeling a new sensation flood him as teeth sink into the back of his neck. His world narrows to a sharp focus, every point of contact between himself and Sam: their linked hands, the solid bulk of the Beta pressed to his back, the mild sting of teeth in his bonding gland. Memories floor his mind, the months of getting to know Sam, of hanging out in DC for lunch, for dinner, for days; the swear jar and the conversation “Just tell me what you need Clint”; out at the farm building the airstrip and working on the barn. The future, raising their baby together, having a family, more kids, coming home to each other, growing old together, having each other.

He doesn’t know he’s crying until Sam gently turns him around, kisses him slow and sweet and brushes the tears off his cheeks. “I love you,” he whispers, sliding down, kissing Clint’s belly gently as well. “I love both of you.”

“Sam,” he gasps out, sniffling in the rest of the tears. “Thank you.”

Some part of his heart closes itself off, but he hardly notices.

* * *

Natasha Romanoff is psychic.

He’ll swear on his life it’s true, he’ll swear on everything he is and has that that woman possesses some sort of supernatural power. She pulls up in the golden haze of a late afternoon, dust hanging in the air behind her car long after she shuts it off. Her steps are light onto the porch, her knock perfunctory before she lets herself in.

Clint looks to her over his shoulder with a smile, waving her closer. “Nat, didn’t know you were coming down today.”

“I hear you had a doctor’s appointment.” She stands in front of him, helping him to his feet. A quick kiss to his forehead, before she leans down and touches his stomach. “How’s little Natasha?”

He winces, looking away quickly. “She’s…” Like ripping off a bandaid. “Nathaniel.”

Natasha’s eyes narrow, her easy smile slipping off her face. She leans down again, whispering to the curve of his belly, “traitor.”

“I have a picture of him?” Clint offers in truce, holding up the sonogram. It’s not the first one he’s had, but it’s the first one where his baby wasn’t being ‘shy,’ as the doctors said. Seven months and he finally knows what his baby looks like.

Nathaniel has Brock’s nose.

They take a seat on the couch, looking through the little scrapbook Clint has started. A few pictures of himself and Brock, the first blurry sonogram, progress pictures of the bedroom, and as they sit there, Clint carefully tapes in the latest sonogram picture. “I’m really glad we went with yellow for the bedroom. It’s a nice, neutral color, so my kid doesn’t have to grow up knowing his Auntie Nat was wrong about something for once in her life.”

Natasha leans her head on his shoulder, humming softly. “I can’t believe you both broke your promise. Assholes. The worst. I’m gonna buy your traitor baby everything he could ever want.”

“Ah yes, the aunt who will spoil my kid and make him a real brat. I look forward to it.”

“It’s practically my job.” She sits up, watching his face closely. “Does Sam know?”

“He’s coming back from DC this weekend, I’ll tell him then.”

“How’s the bond working?”

Clint shrugs, carefully setting the scrapbook aside, rubbing one hand against his belly. Won’t be too long now. “No negative side effects. I love him, Nat. He’s… he’s just amazing. Exactly the kind of person I need in my life.” His head tips back, eyes closing. After so long on a razor’s edge of morality, after so long always looking over his shoulder, waiting for the other shoe to drop… Loving Sam is safe. Loving Sam doesn’t come with risks. He doesn’t worry about losing Sam. Sure, there’s the Falcon wingsuit, but it’s not like Sam is out there throwing himself into the fray every time there’s a fight. He has a steady job at the VA office, he comes out to the farm every weekend, he’s…

Safe.

“Hey…” Natasha nudges his shoulder gently. “I’m glad you two found each other.”

His eyes open again, a grin curving the corner of his mouth. “You wanna see the crib I bought?”

“_Yes_.”

It’s an easy afternoon, Nat cooing over every inch of the baby’s room. She stays for dinner, the two of them settling out onto the screen porch as the sun goes down, bundled into blankets against the chill of the night air. She wraps her arms around him, her chin resting on his shoulder.

“So… We think we found the twins.”

“Yeah?”

Natasha hums, nodding slightly. “They’ve been keeping to themselves, on the move, but we’ve had a background scan running for every publicly accessible security camera in the world. Old S.H.I.E.L.D. tech, upgraded to let J.A.R.V.I.S. run it in the background. They managed to stay out of sight for a long time.”

“So where are they?”

“Sokovia.”

He sighs, rubbing his belly slowly. “What’s the plan?”

“We pulled what we could of their files. Their hometown was bombed in the war, when they were seven. Last year, they volunteered for Strucker’s experiments with the scepter. It changed them, not just temporary mind control, but… full physical changes.” Natasha shakes her head slightly. “And they hate people like us. So-called heroes. They’ve been building something. We don’t think it's a coincidence that they finally turned up on the radar again.”

None of that is a plan. Clint tilts his head towards her, eyebrow raising. “So…”

“So we might be in the process of taking down a couple of kids whose minds have been warped. They might not be the kind of people you save, but the kind that you stop.”

“You were once the kind of person that I was supposed to stop,” he says, touching her hand. “We have to give them a chance.”

“We’re going to try to hold off until after you have the baby. Until we can go at them full force.” Nat shrugs, squeezing him gently. “We’ll need all hands on deck if they can’t be reasoned with.”

It hits him like a truck, his eyes widening with realization. “You guys want me to go in there and talk them down.”

“You’re good at it.”

“One time isn’t much of a track record. I’ve killed way more people than I’ve converted to truth, justice, and the Captain America way.” He snorts, shaking his head. “There’s something else, isn’t there?”

“Always is.” She sighs into his skin. “They lost their parents, in the attack. Two Omegas growing up with no one to guide them… to protect them. Turning to the first person that doesn’t seem ready to use them for what they are, but value them for _ who _ they are. Sound familiar?”

His heart clenches for a moment, his eyes closing. Of course it sounds familiar. He’d been led astray by the same impulsive need to prove he was more than just another Omega. To be held as something besides his phenotype. “I won’t be able to do it for another six months, at least. Are you sure we have that kind of time?”

“No. If we can’t get you in on it… I’ll scent mask and do it myself. We’re just… We’re trying to do right by them. The bombs that destroyed their home town, killed their parents? Stark tech.”

Certainly explains why Tony isn’t offering. Though it’s more common ground than just being an Omega in a world run by Alphas. Clint nods slowly. “I’ll do what I can for them.”

He just hopes they give him the time to try to save them. Before the might of the Avengers comes down on them. A couple of kids, lost, scared _ kids_, deserve the chance.

* * *

Well, the radio _ is _ better than talking to himself all the time.

Clint sings along with the shitty pop music that fuzzes in and out of the static, rocking himself as much as he can. He’s too far along for any serious dancing, but he can still cock his hips and move his shoulders. The last few touches of the baby’s room are almost in order, the last few preparations he can make.

He sticks the letters on the wall over the crib, stepping back and looking at them critically. Says the words out loud, frowns, pulls down some of the letters and puts up others. He says those words out loud and smiles to himself. That’s better.

“Clint, lunch is ready!” Sam calls from downstairs, his voice carrying down the hallway to the back bedroom. It’s closer to their bedroom, and the front room makes a better office/guest room.

“Be right down!”

He sets a last stuffed bear gently in the crib, shaking his head. It will have to come out when the baby starts sleeping in there, but for now… For now, it’s perfect.

Clint makes his way downstairs, joining Sam in the kitchen for lunch. Nothing fancy, neither of them are professional chefs, but it’s filling and warm in a way that goes beyond temperature. He leans himself into Sam’s shoulder, closing his eyes. “The baby’s room is done.”

“Does that mean I finally get to see it?”

“Mmhmm…” He sighs into the arms that wrap around him, into the lips that press to the back of his neck. “I hope you like the name… It’s not official yet, but--”

“Hey. Whatever you wanna name our son is fine with me.” Sam pauses for a moment, and Clint can almost feel his frown. “His middle name’s not Megatron, right?”

Goddamn Natasha, he should know better than to trust a spy with a secret. “That was a _ joke_,” he huffs out, crossing his arms.

Sam laughs, taking his hands and squeezing gently. “I’m good with whatever you chose, Clint. It’s not like I’m gonna love him any less if his name’s… I dunno, Wesley.”

Warm. Caring. Safe. Sam is everything he needs and nothing he deserves, after the life he’s led. Sam doesn’t deserve to be at risk because Clint can’t love someone without losing them--

The emotion chokes him and he shoves away from the counter, nearly falls off the stool. He hears the “hey, Clint--” as he stumbles for the bathroom, the footsteps behind him when he drops to his knees and sicks up his lunch in the toilet.

“Clint?” Sam’s voice is low, worried, just far enough back. The half bath downstairs is small and Sam is so _ perfect _ that he knows better than to go in when Clint’s in there, or to stand in the doorway and block the only means of escape.

“I…” Clint shudders, reaching up to flush the toilet, hauling himself to his feet. He takes a drink from the sink, wiping a hand across his mouth. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Hey, now, that’s not--”

“Don’t you _ get it_, Sam? Look at my track record. Look at the people I’ve loved. The people I cared about. In the best case scenario, they’re dead.” He wraps his arms around himself, looking to the side--no good, there he is in the mirror. Clint drops his gaze to the ground. “I tried to warn Brock, too. After… a-after Coulson, I didn’t want to… to risk someone else--” He lets out a shaky exhale, not quite a sob.

“Clint? Can I come in the room?” His slow nod is answered with soft footsteps. “Can I touch you?” Goddammit, Sam is _ too perfect_. Clint nods again, dropping against him and burying his face into his bondmate’s chest. “It’s not your fault.” Clint shakes his head decisively, but Sam isn’t done. “It’s _ not _ your fault. People make choices every day and those choices have consequences. Unless you pulled the trigger or fired the arrow or made any other deliberate move to kill someone, it’s not your fault that they died. And I guarantee they don’t blame you.” He kisses the top of Clint’s head gently, his voice low and soothing. “I love you, Clint. You deserve to be loved and more than that--I _ want _ to love you. I want to be with you, be bonded to you, raise this baby as ours. You couldn’t say anything to change my mind about that.”

He tilts his head up slightly, reaching up and scrubbing a hand against his face. “Fucking pregnancy hormones,” Clint mutters, dropping his forehead back to Sam’s shoulder. “Promise me that you mean it, that… that you’ll always come home to me. Please, promise me.”

Sam rubs a hand down his back, waiting until he looks up again. He holds Clint’s eyes, nodding slowly. “I promise. I will always come home to you.”

He’s not in the mood to try lunch again, but eventually they move out of the bathroom, make their way upstairs. Clint stands in the doorway as Sam looks over the baby’s room, chewing on his lip. “What do you think?”

Slowly, he turns, his face split into a wide grin. “I think it’s perfect, Clint. And I think Brock would like it, too.”

* * *

Nathaniel Rumlow Barton is born in the middle of the night, his official birth certificate straddling the line from one day to the next.

Clint lies in the hospital bed with his newborn son on his chest, Sam on one side of him and Natasha on the other, feeling almost a year worth of loss and grief melt off him. He’s gorgeous, he’s perfect, he has Brock’s nose and a patch of wild dark hair and when his eyes open they’re such a dark brown they’re almost black. Sam strokes Nathaniel’s hair and coos for him, until the nurses come along and offer to put him in the crib for the night.

The next few days are a whirlwind of gifts arriving, of friends visiting, of bonding time with his baby. Tony, Pepper, and Rhodey send possibly the largest stuffed animal he’s ever seen, along with a lie-down stroller that looks like an Audi R8 (that gift screams _ Tony_, and not just because it’s fire engine red). Bruce visits with more practical gifts, spit rags and diapers. Natasha has been showering him with presents for months, but she goes that extra mile, his email pinging with constant alerts of deliveries at the house.

Steve comes to visit him one afternoon, while Sam is back at the house taking packages inside, while Natasha is working a job somewhere. He looks up at the soft knock at the door, nodding the Alpha inside. “Steve.”

“Clint…” Keeping his voice down, spotting Nathaniel asleep in his arms, Steve enters the room, takes a seat next to the bed. He fiddles with his hands for a moment, before looking up. “I’m sorry.”

Some of the tension bleeds off him, but not much. He shifts the baby slightly in his arms, putting himself just a little bit more between the two of them. “Oh?”

“Yeah. I was… I’ve been an asshole. The exact kind of knothead Alpha that I used to hate. Nat’s right, I hear the word ‘Hydra’ and the rest just sort of… Doesn’t make it past. I was so angry that Hydra would try to use you, that they would stoop to hurting someone I care about just to be able to exist right under my nose… I wasn’t listening to reason.” He reaches over, offering his hand palm-up to Clint. “We still friends?”

Clint considers the offered hand, before shifting, gently placing his hand in Steve’s. He squeezes for a moment, nodding slowly. “We’re still friends, Steve. And you owe the swear jar.” Nathaniel squirms in his arm and he shifts, holding him close, rubbing his back gently. “Do you… Wanna hold him?”

“Oh, I’m not--I’ve never… Um, I can try?” There’s the awkward, fumbling Steve Rogers he remembers. Clint grins, gesturing him closer, carefully handing the baby over to him.

“Support his head, there you go, just like that… Aw, I think he likes his Uncle Stevie.” As if to prove the point, Nathanial makes a little cooing noise, his arms flailing for a moment. “Or he just pooped.”

Steve crinkles his nose. “Your kid just pooped on me, Barton.”

“That is one hundred percent his father’s influence, I take no blame.” Still, he carefully slides out of bed, taking Nathaniel back and bringing him over to the crib to change his diaper. “Brock really did love me, you know… Here’s the proof of it. Nathaniel, safe and happy in my arms…”

Steve leans over his shoulder, his hands gentle on Clint’s arms. “I should have been there for you more. Should have been a better friend.”

“Your world got kinda flipped on its head, Cap.”

“Still…” He sighs, placing a quick squeeze on Clint’s shoulder. “Oh, I uh… Romanoff said I should bring a present, so…” He smiles, stepping back to the door, picking up a wrapped package from outside and holding it up. “Congratulations.”

Clint sits down on the edge of the bed, taking the offered gift and unwrapping it carefully. He tilts his head slightly, one eyebrow raising, before he grins. “You’re an asshole.”

“Swear jar.”

Baby books, soft covers and bright colors. He has a good handful of them at home, but these… These are something else. Clint flips through the one on top, snorting. “_Avenger Babies_? Who comes up with these things?” Simple sentences and drawings, showing the adventures of the baby Avengers. It’s too fucking adorable.

“I saw them at the drug store and I couldn’t stop myself. This one’s my favorite.” He picks up one of the books, taking a seat next to Clint and flipping through it. “_Baby Iron Man’s Magic Blankie_. When I told Tony about it, he went on a twenty minute rant about how magic doesn’t exist.”

“Did you remind him that Thor can fly?” Clint snorts, carefully putting the stack of books next to the bed. He’s going to have to show these to Sam, he’ll get a kick out of them.

It’s good to have the tension with Steve finally cleared from the air. Maybe he can’t forgive Brock for what he started as, but he seems willing to accept what he ended as. It’s enough, Clint supposes.

He curls up in bed that night, one hand on the side of the little crib Nathaniel is in, his mind swirling back to Brock. To how he should be here, lying down in bed with Clint, taking care of their baby together. He loves Sam, he does, but the bond mark on his neck should be Brock’s and a part of his heart knows it.

Clint is nothing if not alert for danger, so he’s perhaps the only person aware when the maternity ward goes into lockdown, the only person aware of the rush of soft-soled shoes on tile. He sits up, keeping his hand on Nathaniel, watching the doorway to his room.

No one comes by, no one says anything, and eventually he drifts to sleep.

The next morning, he keeps an ear to the ground and hears about how there was a breakout the night before. Clint sends a text to Natasha, asking her to sneak him in a knife. Just in case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your occasional fun fact: I didn't see Iron Man 3 until sometime in October 2019 (somehow I just... missed it) so I had no idea that Tony had the ARC Reactor taken out before Age of Ultron started. I also didn't know that when writing this, and had to do some frantic pre-posting editing of the scene where Clint and Tony talk about adoption.
> 
> Civil War was a VERY different movie for me, with Steve and Bucky trying to straight up murder Tony in Siberia.


	5. Didn't Come For A Fight (But I'll Fight To The End)

He’s all packed for Sokovia, his new equipment outfitted, his bow and arrows ready. Clint turns to Sam, raising an eyebrow. “You could come with us.”

“It’s bad enough that you’re going to fight the psycho twins with just a bow and arrow. I’ll pass.” He steps closer, kissing him gently. “Just promise me you’ll come home, Clint.”

“Promise. I love you.” The words fall easily from his lips, rise easily in his heart. He presses another kiss to Sam’s mouth, a little more desperate. Natasha’s waiting outside, their time is short. They’ve maybe waited too long to do this as it is. “Take care of our boy.”

“I love you, Clint.”

Saying goodbye to Nathaniel--Natey, as of late--is even harder than saying goodbye to Sam. Clint strokes his patch of dark hair back, kissing the sleeping baby’s forehead. Three months old. He shouldn’t be leaving. Duty calls, but he belongs here, with his family. “I love you, Natey. Every second of every day.”

The baby doesn’t stir, and Clint pulls himself away before he can change his mind. He gives Sam a final nod, hurrying out to the airstrip and the quinjet.

“You ready for this?” Natasha asks, as he works through the pre-flight.

“Have to be. We’re the Avengers, we have to be there when no one else will. And I don’t think anyone else is willing to give these kids a chance.” He doesn’t look back at the farm as they take off, he can’t. Clint swallows down the fear that lurches into his chest, focusing on piloting.

He has to come home. He promised.

With more effort than it should take, Clint focuses on what’s ahead of them. New York, where they’ll pick up the rest of the team… and the scepter. If he can’t talk the twins down, there’s a chance that someone can use Loki’s scepter to reverse whatever was done to them, take away their powers.

Sokovia. The twins have been seen on the capital city’s few security cameras, walking around town as if nothing is wrong. Talking to people, to children. The footage, silent and too grainy for him to read their lips, is unsettling. What could they have planned? They’re up to something, people don’t disappear for six months just to turn up again like nothing is wrong, but none of them have been able to figure out the Maximoff’s plan.

Tony’s voice pipes through the cockpit speakers as they’re coming into New York, his words blurring together. “Barton get down here as soon as you land we might have something.”

“Copy that, Stark.” He exchanges a look and a shrug with Natasha, guiding the jet to the landing pad on the tower. There’s no rushing through a proper shut down, but they walk out in record time, head down to the floor where Tony is waiting.

The big television screen is lit up with the clearest picture of the twins he’s seen, Wanda crouched down in front of a child, Pietro standing staring directly at the camera. “What have we got?”

“Still no sound, but Stark Industries took the liberty of upgrading the police station security cameras for better video quality. Not that the police were _ particularly _ grateful. Most of them never went up, the few that did were taken down. We masked this one inside one of their old cameras, so it’s been up for about two months now. And surprise, the twins have been avoiding it.”

_ “Until today,” _ J.A.R.V.I.S. adds in, rewinding the tape slightly.

Clint watches, frowning, as the twins walk past the camera, backs to it. Abruptly, Wanda stops, looking over her shoulder directly at it. She nudges her brother, head inclining towards the camera, before they disappear.

A moment of fastforwarding later, they’re back in frame. The video pauses again, where it had been before, before playing at normal speed. Wanda crouched down, her lips moving as she speaks to a child. Pietro standing over her, glaring into the lens of the camera.

“And....” Tony draws out the word, pointing. “There. You see that distortion?”

“She did something to the kid,” Natasha agrees, watching as the child walks off one way and the twins the other. A second later, there’s another distortion, before the camera goes static.

_ “The last frames of the tape are slowed to one percent of normal speed.” _

“Rewind it. Back to where she was talking to the kid.” Clint steps closer, watching Wanda’s mouth as J.A.R.V.I.S. replays the tape. He mouths along with her, trying to sound out what she’s saying. “What language do they speak in Sokovia?”

“Russian, mostly. Why?” Tony’s head perks up, his eyebrows already raising. “You can read her lips?”

“I’m not the best at foreign language, but I can guess most of the syllables. J.A.R.V.I.S., from the beginning?”

It takes time, too much time in his opinion, but slowly, Clint sounds out what it looks like she’s saying. “_Kogda pridut plokhiye lyudi, sdelayte im bol'no, chtoby zashchitit' svoikh roditeley_. How’s my pronunciation, Nat?”

“Honestly deplorable. Hang on… It’s something like ‘when bad people come, hurt them to protect their parents’.” She sighs, rubbing her temples. “This isn’t good.”

“An army of children to fight the Avengers.” Clint makes a face, rubbing the back of his neck gently. “We have to get her to let them go. We can’t fight kids.”

They fill in the team on this development as they’re gearing up, everyone turning to Steve for the strategy. He looks among them, frowning.

“We get Barton in as close as we can, give him the window to talk them down while the rest of us focus on keeping the twins where they are. If he can’t negotiate the release of the children, Romanoff, you have to be ready to take the shot. The girl will be priority elimination. Doctor Banner, I think it’s better if you wait in the jet for now. Stark, you’ll be on city containment, nonlethally keep the children from getting near us. And Thor… Keep that brother of hers pinned down. He’s fast, but I don’t think he’s very strong. You should be able to hold him in place if you can catch him.”

“Our other option is Loki’s scepter,” Thor adds, nodding to the case it’s currently stored in, brought back from Asgard as a second option. “This Strucker was able to use it to manipulate their minds, grant them their powers. The scepter may be able to take it away.”

“We’ve been studying the readings we took on it for almost a year, with the help of Doctor Selvig. It seems to be a focus for a more potent power source within.” Bruce touches the case, frowning. “Sort of like how the Tesseract was a focus for the gateway. That one was a door, connecting two points of space. This one seems more capable of altering the mind.”

“Any chance one of us could use it on them?” Natasha asks, double and triple checking her ammo clips, securing them to her belt. “Strucker had years to experiment and nothing points to the twins being his only subjects, just his only successes.”

“Seems too risky,” Steve decides after a moment, shaking his head. “If we can’t talk them down, they have to be stopped.”

Clint glances back from the pilot seat, heaving a sigh. “My first job back, and you’re puttin’ it all on my shoulders, huh?”

“Wouldn’t ask it of you if I didn’t think you were capable, Clint.”

Tony leans over the back of his chair, his voice pitching low. “Why do you think he didn’t ask _ me _ to do it?” They share a snicker, before focus returns to mission prep.

Getting near Sokovia is easy. Clint sets the jet down just outside of the city on the minuscule country’s border with Ukraine, running through the landing checklist before releasing the back. He pulls Bruce aside, pointing him through the emergency flight prep instructions.

“If shit goes really south, prep us for take off.”

“And don’t turn green, I know.” Bruce grins, nudging him lightly. “Glad you’re back in the pilot’s seat, Clint. I was getting sick of Natasha’s bumpy landings.”

“Heard that, Banner,” Nat’s voice crackles over the comms and Clint smirks.

“_Natasha_, huh? Someone’s been keeping secrets from her _ best friend _ if she’s suddenly--”

“Save the chatter for after the job,” Steve cuts them off, full of Captain America authority. “Stark, what’s the flyby say?”

“School’s just letting out for the day, city’s crawling with kids at bus stops, parks, playgrounds. There’s a few making some interesting moves, though… In fact, you should all duck into cover and keep an eye on the border road. Like, now.”

They fade into the cover of the trees, watching as a group of kids walk slowly and carefully along the border demarcation. They aren’t laughing or playing around like kids on the way home from school, they almost seem to be… Patrolling. Clint exhales slowly, shaking his head.

“She’s got them playing city guard. Norse or not, Thor’s going to stand out like a sore thumb here. Barton, Romanoff, think you can infiltrate?” Even Tony’s all business for once, no wise cracks sneaking into his communications.

“If I had a little more time to study guard patterns and wasn’t wearing combat gear, yeah.” Natasha shrugs, giving him a raised eyebrow. “But we don’t do this job because it’s easy.”

“Plan stays the same. We get in, we get to the twins. Keep giving us the overhead, Stark. Thor and I are going to draw attention, so let’s do just that.” Steve nods them to move out, the group splitting off.

Clint and Natasha make their way through the woods, darting across the open field and into the city. They move carefully, following Tony’s instructions to avoid most crowds, especially of children. It’s hard to say how many the Maximoff girl has influenced, but the fewer they interact with, the better.

“I think I found our fugitives, guys. There’s a whole group of kids around the old church in the center of town. Not playing, not walking, just… standing. Oh, this is some _ Children of the Corn _ nonsense.” They can hear the shudder in Tony’s voice. “Getting past them isn’t going to be a walk in the park.”

“Then let’s use it to our advantage. Rogers, Thor, what have you got?” Natasha slows her pace, watching as Clint ducks into a store. He comes back with a map, folding it carefully for the two of them to see. Tony’s eyes in the sky are okay, but he’d rather have his own overhead view.

“We can reach the church ground, attempt to draw them away. To cluster them and hold them back. I expect one of the twins will make an engagement soon.” Thor’s voice over the comms, accompanied by a small grunt of pain. “Really now, who throws rocks?”

“They’re doing this because they think we’re a threat to them, to their families. Maybe it’s time to get threatening,” Clint suggests, tapping out a route to the church against the map.

Tony snorts. “Let’s hope there’s no one taking pictures of Captain America punching grade schoolers.”

“I said threatening, not violent. Plant yourselves somewhere and start getting loud.”

“I can do loud. Thor and I will take this one, Cap, you think you can handle the church?”

Steve affirms quietly. “Should be able to clear them out. Barton, Romanoff, I’ll meet you at the church.”

They move quickly through the city, meeting up with Steve just outside the church grounds. It’s like Tony said, a circle of children standing around the building, evenly spaced and facing away from it with blank expressions. Clint and Natasha stay in an alleyway as Steve walks forward, the hastily-formed plan in action.

“Using the children of this city won’t make things better!” Steve shouts, every single child whipping their attention in his direction at once. It’s more than a little terrifying. He keeps talking, keeps eyes on him, and Clint and Natasha move.

She boosts him onto a fire escape and he pulls her up after, the two of them climbing to the rooftop. Clint eyes the church, watching the windows as Natasha assembles the sniper rifle she’s been carrying.

“A hundred yards, maximum.” He draws his bow, selecting an arrow and lining up the shot, aiming carefully for just over a window. “You’ve got this.”

“I’d be way more comfortable with you up here and me down there.” She lies down behind the rifle, adjusting her aim slightly before nodding. “Go.”

Clint fires, setting up the zipline. He tugs once, before securing the other end of the wire to the metal of the fire escape, hooking himself onto it. With barely a whisper of noise, he glides across the street and down, aiming to kick in the stained glass window as he lands. One hand quickly unclips him from the line, glass crunching under his feet when he hits the floor of the church.

The twins are both there in front of him, matching looks of moderate surprise on their faces. He’s apparently caught them off guard, neither expecting him to come in through a window. “What, you didn’t see that coming?”

Pietro’s mouth curves into a smirk, though Wanda frowns. “What do you want?” She asks, red energy curling around her fingers. “Why can’t you just leave us alone?”

“We want you to let the children go. To stop hurting people. Doesn’t seem like a lot to ask for.” He moves carefully, circling to try to get them to move, put them in Natasha’s line of sight. There’s a secondary motivation to his actions, of course, letting the twins get a glimpse of the bond scar on the back of his neck. “I know you’ve been hurt, but we’re just here to help.”

“The Avengers, here to help?” She laughs, nodding slightly. In a blur, Pietro is gone, the wide doors swinging as he passes through them. Clint hears a shout on his comm, Natasha’s voice. “And if you can’t ‘help’ us, you destroy us.”

“It doesn’t have to come to that. I get it, I do. You have no idea how much I get being alone, feeling like the whole world is against you. Turning to the first person who offers you the chance to be something more, without even thinking about the cost.” He holds his hands open, watching her face. “It doesn’t have to be like this, for either of you. You can use what you have to make the world better, safer for everyone. So that no one else has to lose their family.”

The energy around her hands flares for a moment, her eyes on him. Clint winces, his mind filling with whispers, unbidden images coming to his head. Learning to shoot, to kill, contracts, names and faces and moments of death. He blinks, shakes it off, tries to breathe normally again.

“You are a merchant of death, the same as Stark. You don’t offer us safety.”

He grits his teeth, mind still reeling. It wasn’t a full loss of control, but it teetered far too close to the edge for his comfort… but if this is what it takes. “Look again.”

“Step closer and perhaps I will.”

Clint watches her, well aware of what she’s actually doing. Putting him into the line of fire. If Natasha is still on the roof, he’ll block her shot. If she’s been taken out and Pietro is up there with the sniper rifle, it’ll put him directly in the enemy’s crosshairs. Still, he steps forward. “_Look_.”

It’s overwhelming, the feeling of another mind in his, the feeling of a _ power _ ripping through his memories. Clint squeezes his eyes shut without realizing it, forcing himself to concentrate. New York, helping people. Repent. Stopping Loki. Brock. Love. Loss. Sam. Fear. Love. Nathaniel. Love. Love.

When her mind retreats from his, she has a hand pressed firm over her chest, her breathing just as ragged. Wanda shakes her head, seeming to try to clear it. “You…”

He has the barest moment to hope he’s getting through to her when something explodes. The old church shakes, papers sifting to the floor. Clint looks up sharply, grabbing his bow without a second thought. “What the hell was that?”

“Hang on, getting a bird’s eye,” Tony calls back, letting out a low whistle a moment later. “Marketplace, north side of the city. I’ve got casualties and black smoke, it looks like a bomb went off.”

He glances at Wanda, shaking his head quickly. “This is your city, you wanna do something to help it, or just use it as a shield against people trying to help you?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, turns and hurries out the doors. Steve’s already running north, Natasha staggering out of the alley and following. There’s blood coming from her temple, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

“Guys,” Bruce speaks over the comms, sounding concerned. “I’ve got radio chatter coming in from all over. Patching it to you, now.”

The rapid Russian means nothing to Clint, but he pulls his comm out and passes it to Natasha. “Translation?”

She listens for a moment, before passing it back. “They’re trying to take the city back into Russian control. Heard it’s currently being governed by a couple of kids on the Avenger’s kill list and want to use this to reassert their territorial claim. More or less.”

“What can we do to help?” An unfamiliar voice asks, making Clint pause in the midst of resituating his comm. “This city is our home, tell me what my sister and I can do to help!”

Steve’s voice comes over the comm, clear and sure. “We need to evacuate civilians, there could be another bombing. Search the perimeter for an invasion force and prepare to turn them back. Get medical attention to the injured. Bruce, bring the jet in, we’ll clear you an LZ. We can move serious injuries to the closest hospital faster in the jet than by road.”

The children around them are moving, almost as one force, going into buildings and coming out with other children, with confused adults. They move south, led away from the danger, back towards the church. Another explosion shakes the ground and Tony cusses over the comms.

“This isn’t Russia, it’s Hydra.”

“You sure?”

“I mean, the weapons that look exactly like the ones Strucker was developing are only a _ clue_, maybe we should get the _ other _ genius on the team to weigh in. Banner, that audio is looping, isn’t it?”

There’s a pause, before Bruce’s voice speaks up over the comm, the whine of the jet’s engine behind him. “Seems to be, the same message over and over. They’re covering, making the world think one thing while they do another.”

“Which means they’re after something specific, not actually trying to reintegrate Sokovia into Russia. The twins?” Steve guesses, looking around as Clint and Natasha join him at the bombed out marketplace.

“Most likely. You see what I see? Castle on the hill, most likely fortified just like the one where we found the scepter. Probably got a damn energy barrier on it, too.”

There’s a small scuffle over the comms, before Wanda’s voice comes across. “I can take out the energy barrier if someone can get me close to it.”

“Civilian rescue is still our priority. Wanda, Tony, you work on the barrier. Thor, Natasha, Pietro, clear an LZ for Bruce and start getting civilians out. Clint and I are gonna go hunting.” He glances over his shoulder, giving Clint a grin. “I’ll draw them out and you’ll knock them down, right?”

“Just don’t get yourself killed, Cap.” He draws an arrow, following Steve past the rubble of the marketplace as the others get to work.

* * *

They’re outfitted for urban infiltration rather than forest, but Clint makes his way into a decent sniper’s nest in a tree as Steve creeps through the forest. He lines up his shot, following the soldier across the field, tracking ahead of him as a blast of gunfire hits his shield.

“Two hostiles at your 11, Cap.” Clint fires once, the arrow sticking into the tree that the two Hydra soldiers have taken cover behind. He presses his thumb to the button on his bow, drawing another arrow as it explodes. “They’re breaking to either side, get the one running for 9.” Tracking them, even through the trees, is easy enough. Clint fires again, taking down the man that had begun running right.

They both look up at the sound of much louder gunfire, the puff of smoke from the castle on the hill before something explodes behind them. “Ah, hell, they’re shelling the city,” Tony gripes over the comms. “Guys, pick up the pace on the evac.”

“Banner has landed and triage has begun,” Thor says.

“Most of the unharmed civilians have been led to the bomb shelters in the city center,” Wanda adds.

Another burst of gunfire draws Clint’s attention and he follows it, just in time to see the truck with the heavier artillery pull up.

“Rogers, Barton, you’ve got heavy fire incoming.”

He jumps down from the tree moments before his perch is obliterated, huffing. “Thanks, Tony, your timing is _ incredible_.”

“I live to serve. Wanda, how’s the barrier coming?”

“Made a small window. I’ll try to shut it down from the inside.”

He runs back to Steve as the truck fires again, ducking low and getting behind the Captain and his shield. “Got a plan?”

“New plan’s the same as the old plan. I draw their attention, you take them down. Let me know when you’re in position.” They split, Steve running right in front of the truck and disappearing into the woods, Clint ducking behind another tree. He glances around it, watching the vehicle maneuver to chase after Steve. It puts the gunner’s back to him and he can’t hold down a grin, selecting an arrow from his quiver and carefully lining up the shot. Not a direct hit to the gunner, that’s too easy and doesn’t take care of the actual problem, the gun. But…

Clint fires, watching the mild concussion of the EMP arrow, the short range burst killing the truck’s engine and the gun on top of it. “Your show, Cap,” he calls, turning back behind the tree as a shield flies out of the woods, followed quickly by Steve running at the truck.

Another arrow takes care of the guy in the passenger seat before he can pull his gun, and Steve knocks the driver and the gunner out with his fist and his shield respectively. They meet back up at the truck, Clint picking up the arrows and pulling the spent arrow heads off them. He tucks the two away, looking around slowly. All quiet in the woods.

“Everyone, status update,” Steve orders, nodding to him and beginning to jog back towards town. The shelling has stopped, an almost eerie silence falling over them, interrupted only by distant sirens.

“We’re still pulling survivors out of the marketplace, could use some help,” Bruce answers first, before Natasha’s voice comes over his comm.

“Steve, you better get back here.”

“Barrier’s down, Wanda and I have almost finished clearing out the castle,” Tony adds.

Steve glances at Clint before picking up the pace, back to the city.

He’s alone in the silence of the woods, his eyes still trying to be everywhere. They _ might _ have eliminated all the hostiles, but Clint’s never been one to take a situation at face value.

He sees it with just enough time to duck, goes low in the pine needles and rolls behind a rock for cover as a blast of blue energy rips through the air where he’d been standing a second ago. “_Shit_,” he hisses, grabbing for an arrow.

“Clint?”

“Enemy engagement, they’ve got me pinned down. We missed a bunker, Cap.” Another blast of blue energy explodes just in front of his cover, showering him in dirt and rocks. It takes them time to reload, good. He rolls to his feet, standing to run, turning back to shoot as he goes. With a frown, Clint eases the draw, sliding down a slight embankment and pressing his back against it. Sure enough, a bare moment later another blast of blue energy shoots overhead. “I can’t get a read on where it’s coming from.”

“Hang on, Pietro’s on his way to get you.”

Pietro? The speedster? Clint frowns, barely given time to contemplate it before there’s a panting body next to his. “You didn’t see that coming, did you, old man?”

“Old man?” He huffs, rolling over and nocking his arrow again. “You see where the bunker is?”

“No, but I can draw their fire so you can.”

“Kid don’t--” He’s talking to air, Pietro already up and over the edge, zipping through the woods in a blur. He slows down and Clint watches him, watches past him.

He sees the movement in the woods and curses, lining up as blue energy begins to charge. Well camouflaged and disappearing into the ground between shots. Countermeasures against him, specifically. “Kid! Duck!”

Clint fires right into that growing radius of blue, his arrow plugging the gun barrel. It explodes just as the charge fires, turning the bunker into an orange and blue fireball. He keeps his eyes scanning over the edge of the embankment, looking for more, looking for any sign of Pietro.

“Where the hell are you…?” Carefully, Clint climbs up, starting back towards town. The kid will probably turn up.

Something runs up to him and Clint has an arrow out before he realizes it’s Pietro, the kid slowing down to fall into step with him. “You’re jumpy.”

“You’re unsettling.”

It’s not a long walk back to the city and he can handle himself, but he doesn’t complain about the footsteps beside his. Pietro frowns, looking thoughtful. “My sister can,” he says after a moment, glancing over his shoulder and up, towards the castle.

“What?”

“Those things you said, about using our powers to make the world better and safer. My sister can. I can’t do much of anything.”

Clint sighs, turning to give the kid a long stare. He doesn’t seem bothered by it, just a statement of fact. “Look, it’s not always about having power. All I’ve got is a damn bow and arrow. It’s about being the ones to step up and help when no one else will. When no one else _ can_. The Avengers isn’t about flashy tech or super powers, it’s just… We’re the people that put it all at risk so no one else has to. It’s not for everyone and that’s fine, but if you want to give it a shot, well…” He shrugs, one corner of his mouth pulling up into a smile. “I’ll retire.”

Something in Pietro eases, his face contorting into a wide grin. “Better do it before you break a hip, old man.” He’s gone in a blur of speed before Clint can even think of a comeback, and the archer shakes his head, picking up the pace.

He gets back to the city just as Wanda and Tony land, just as outside help arrives. They all work quickly, helping load less serious injuries into the ambulances. Bruce is already gone with the jet. It takes too long for Clint to notice that Steve isn’t there either, but he figures the captain went with the first round of major injuries.

Natasha catches his arm as they finish clearing the area, her voice low. “Do you have the sat phone?”

“Yeah, it’s in my bag on the jet, why?”

She only shakes her head, biting down on her lower lip. “I have to get in touch with Sam about something.”

Clint raises an eyebrow. “You two are keeping secrets from me?”

“They’re not my secrets to tell.”

“That has literally never stopped you before. I think Tony has a sat phone, but it’s going to go through J.A.R.V.I.S. so whatever secrets you have, he’ll probably find out.”

“We’ll tell you when we can. Promise.” She kisses his cheek, walking away and to Tony. Clint frowns after her, before focusing back on the task before him.

He knows he’s being watched, can feel eyes on his back from across the way, but until she decides to come talk to him, he’s content to ignore Wanda Maximoff. It takes an agonizing five minutes for her to approach, her steps light. “Clint…”

He turns, not even feigning surprise. “Our negotiations got interrupted, didn’t they?”

“I let the children go. They…” She frowns, rubbing her arm and looking away from him. “They’ve been through enough.” He waits, his head tilting slightly. “You… You don’t worry? About the rest of them using you?”

“I can take care of myself pretty well. And they’ve earned my trust.” He shrugs, reaching back to rub the back of his neck lightly. “If nothing else, it’s nice to have people that you can trust watching your back. The more the better.”

“How can you forgive us, forgive me, for what we did?” She’s still watching him, watching his face, but there’s none of the pressure at his mind, no whispers or unbidden memories. The crackle of red energy around her fingers is gone.

“I wouldn’t call it forgiveness. We’re giving you both a chance. Forgiveness… That’s earned. But,” he claps a hand lightly on her shoulder, “so is trust.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week will be a new story in this series, rather than the next chapter of this story. Look for "The Bridges I Have Burned (Light My Way Back Home)" soon. The rest of "(I Love) The Way You Hurt Me" will alternate with that until both are done.


	6. (The Truth) Catches Up With Us

Sam’s waiting for them, not at the Tower but at the new building. One of Tony’s old weapons plants, retrofitted from Stark Industries to Avengers Headquarters. Quieter than downtown New York, not quite as isolated as the farm. He all but runs to Sam’s arms after they land, scooping up Natey and kissing his forehead.

“How was everything?” Clint asks, leaning in to give Sam a kiss as well.

“We got along just fine.” Arms wrap around him, holding him tight for a moment. “I have some top secret work to do, but let’s get dinner tonight, yeah?”

“Top secret, huh? Is this why Nat wanted my sat phone?”

“Absolutely and I’ll tell you more as soon as I can.” Another quick kiss, before Natasha joins them, her and Sam walking away together, talking low.

Clint turns, watching as the others settle in. He needs to strip his own gear off, clean up, take a well-earned nap… His eyes linger on the twins, both of them still near the quinjet, looking hesitant to cross the landing pad and come inside.

Shifting Natey in his arms, Clint heads over to them, one hand raising slightly. “You guys wanna get lost together? I’ve never been here before.”

Wanda looks around, her eyes wide. “If we get lost, we may never be found again.”

He snorts gentle laughter, shaking his head. “At the very least, Sam would come looking for us if I missed our dinner date.”

Pietro is staring at him, more specifically at the baby in his arms, his eyes wide. Of course, he wasn’t in Clint’s head, he doesn’t know about… In a flash he’s closer, leaning over to stare more intently. “It’s so small.”

“Well, he’s only a few months old. His name’s Nathaniel. Natey.”

Pietro reaches up, hesitant, and Clint nods. One finger touches Natey’s hand, his little fingers curling around it instinctively. Wanda joins them more sedately, tilting her head and looking closer. She reaches up, her fingers trembling slightly, dropping her hand before she can touch Natey’s hair.

“Listen, as much fun as standing outside is… Let’s at least get indoors. I wanna drop off my gear and change into something a little less ass accentuating. I’m sure we can find you two some clean clothes and beds, too.” Clint turns, walking away, hearing two sets of footsteps fall in with him after a moment.

He did not sign up for babysitting duty, but with Steve still MIA after Sokovia, with Natasha and Sam busy, with Thor, Bruce, and Tony taking the scepter and vanishing into the building as soon as he’d touched down, he’s pretty much the only option. Unless Hill is around…

No, it’s better if he takes this one. He’s got at least a little bit of a rapport with them already. And really, they haven’t done anything worse than what’s in his past. Hold a city hostage by their children, sure, but none of those children had been harmed. Clint would be a hypocrite if he really held that against them.

He finds bedrooms down a long hallway, touching the panels next to each door. Some remain red, but eventually three turn green, two next to each other and one across the hall. The twins each disappear into one room and Clint takes the remaining one, looking around inside. Carefully, he lays Natey in the center of the bed, turning to the closet and looking through it. Pre-programmed rooms, maybe? These seem to be his size and style of clothes. Hell, there’s even a smaller cupboard with a fold out crib buried in the back. He changes quickly into jeans and a t-shirt, unfolding the crib and setting it up. Another drawer shows baby clothes and a few baby accessories, but Natey seems fine for now. Clint scoops him back up gently, rocking him as he fusses slightly. “Shh, darling… I know, I know…” He lays him down in the crib, stroking his hair and humming softly.

There’s a light knock at his door and he looks over his shoulder, calling for whoever it is to come in. Both of the twins, still in their old clothes, looking anxious. “What’s up?”

“Are we supposed to stay in our rooms?” Wanda asks immediately, looking over her shoulder at the open door. “Or can we…”

“They made us stay in our rooms. Before,” Pietro clarifies, his hand grasping his sister’s. “We were next to each other but we weren’t allowed to see each other or talk.”

“Well, this place is run on the same system as the Tower, I think, it’s called J.A.R.V.I.S. Uh, J.A.R.V.I.S?.” Clint frowns, glancing around the room. No speaker in the corner, no soothing semi-robotic voice so far. “Or it’s not… But anyways, those panels besides the doors will let you know if you can go somewhere or not. I don’t see why you wouldn’t be allowed to wander around, especially in common areas.” His gaze slips to their linked hands, shoulders rolling into an easy shrug. “I can talk to Tony about putting a door between your rooms. Let you have some privacy if you want it, but be able to go to each other if you need to.”

The matching looks of relief are enough to make him almost want to go back, just to beat Strucker’s face in personally. They’re _ kids_, manipulated and used and kept vulnerable while Hydra turned them into weapons. Clint tries to keep a distance from the job, to not let it be personal, but this… This he can feel the anger seeping into him like bitter tea. He inhales and exhales slowly, forcing himself to remain calm despite that. “Do you two need anything right now?”

Wanda looks around the room, back out into the hallway, her brows furrowing together. She leans into Pietro rather than addressing Clint directly, her voice a low hum in the air. After a moment’s thought, her brother nods. “Lunch?”

“Hey, I’m not stopping you.” Clint waves them off lightly, looking over his shoulder to Natey asleep in his crib. “But if you’re going to grab lunch, bring me back something, too, okay?”

“You’re not going to…” Wanda frowns, her fingers waving slightly, “_babysit _ us?”

“I think you’re capable of making some lunch on your own. Just come find me if you need anything, I guess. I don’t think I’ll wander far from here.” Honestly all he wants to do is get some sleep. Most of the others slept on and off on the jet, but he’d taken the pilot’s seat the whole trip, hadn’t gotten any shut eye since the night before they left. Two days ago, now, maybe three. Time zones made the calculations harder.

With another look at him for approval, the twins disappear from his open door. Clint drops to the bed with relief, lying back and stretching out, staring up at the ceiling. He isn’t going to take his hearing aids out, not in such a new environment and especially not with Natey asleep a few feet away, but he can at least relax a little bit.

The soft bed and draw of sleep are more than enough to have his breathing evening out, to have him drifting away into memories that become dreams.

He raises a hand in half-awake acknowledgement when someone drops a plate on his bedside table, mumbling his thanks before rolling over and falling back asleep.

* * *

They get slices of thin New York pizza, dripping with grease and cheese, and find a park bench for dinner. Clint snorts a laugh, almost spitting soda out of his nose, as Sam’s first bite immediately pulls all the cheese off his slice, leaves it hanging from his mouth as he flounders to try to either eat it all at once or put it back on the pizza.

“That is why you do the fold, Wilson.” He demonstrates, folding his pizza carefully in half, taking a bite from the pointed tip of the slice without losing the cheese. “That and any good piece of New York pizza is at least twice as big as your mouth.”

“Didn’t you grow up in like Iowa or something, farm boy? How do you know so much about New York pizza?” Sam snags the soda from him, taking an almost petulant drink.

“You’ve spent five minutes in a city with Tony Stark, right? I swear, he knows not only which Ray’s pizza is the _ actual _ original, but which one has the _ actual _ best recipe. We didn’t go to either of those, by the way, we went to a shitty one because I like this park.” Clint swipes the soda back, taking a drink before leaning in and kissing Sam on the cheek. “Get him started on VooDoo Donuts. I dare you.”

“Hard pass. I try _ not _ to encourage Stark to start hearing himself talk.” They settle in to eat their pizza in comfortable quiet, watching the city pass by around them. Sam takes his hand when the pizza is gone, running his fingertips over Clint’s slowly. “Steve doesn’t want the rest of you to know about it... But I told him I couldn’t keep secrets from you.”

“If it’s not something I need to know--”

“Clint, our whole lives are just secrets and lies. Things we do, things we see, that we can’t tell anyone about because knowing puts people in danger. When you have someone you _ can _ tell, someone that understands the risk they’re taking just by knowing something… You can’t keep secrets from them.”

He smiles, turning his hand and squeezing Sam’s. “Fair point.”

Sam sighs, looking down at their linked hands, his lips pursing for a moment. “It’s Bucky.”

For a long second, Clint can’t piece the words together into anything coherent. Sam may as well have just spoken Latin or Hindi or the language of one of the uncontacted Amazon tribes out there. He blinks once to try to process it, his lips curling into a frown.

“Barnes. James Barnes, Bucky, Steve’s friend from back before the whole Captain America thing.”

_ The Winter Soldier. Barnes. _ He remembers the conversations, he remembers reading the information that Nat leaked onto the internet. None of it adds up to much good. He’s not entirely _ surprised _ that Hydra would do this, but… “He tried to kill you guys, didn’t he?”

“He did, he was under orders to. Steve tried to get through to him, while we were taking down the helicarriers for Project Insight. He doesn’t know if it worked, but… _ someone _ pulled him from the Potomac that day, and it wasn’t anyone that wanted to stick around.”

Clint nods slowly, his mind flashing back. The group of them that had come in. Steve’s uniform, muddy and bloody. “So what’s that make today?”

“He was in Sokovia. At the market when it exploded. Natasha ID’d him among the major injuries--that arm kinda stands out--and Steve took him off site. They’re still in Europe, location undisclosed but he snagged your sat phone and we’ve been in touch. Bucky’s injuries weren’t serious enough to kill him, but they definitely rattled his brain around.”

It’s a lot to take in. A lot that doesn’t add up to much for him. Clint squeezes Sam’s hand again, humming softly. “Steve’s not acting rationally about this, is he?”

“He’s convinced that the guy that turned his face into mashed potatoes can be reasoned with, but he’s not entirely irrational. He at least called me _ before _ Bucky woke up and got some PTSD 101 tips.” Sam snorts, shaking his head. “He wants me to fly out there tomorrow and do a psychological evaluation. See how we can salvage this.”

He shouldn’t let the bitterness flood him--Bucky and Steve were friends from before the days of Captain America--but it still clouds his mind for a moment. Steve’s barely willing to accept that he was in love with Brock, but seventy-odd years of working for Hydra can get brushed under the rug for Bucky. Go figure.

“If it can be salvaged. I mean, a good knock to the head did it for me, but… Somehow I doubt that it’ll work in this situation. Still… I get it, Sam. Do what you have to do.” He leans in, kisses the other man slow and easy. “Just promise to come home to me. I love you.”

Sam kisses him again, bumping their noses together gently. “I’ll always come home to you, Clint. Love you too much not to.”

They go back to watching people as the sun sets over the city, getting back to the car and driving back to the compound once it’s fully night time.

* * *

He could, maybe should, go back to the farm. The job is done, the only things really happening at the compound aren’t his speed, but… It’s been so long since Clint was with the team, since he spent any real time with the rest of the Avengers, that he can’t help but linger in the days after Sam leaves.

And there’s the twins to consider. They aren’t his responsibility, sure, not his problem, but as soon as he had come back from last night’s dinner with Sam, Pietro had run up to him and asked if he knew how to make hot chocolate. Which, weird, but of course he did and of course he didn’t mind showing the boy. Clint had ended up making hot chocolate for damn near everyone, steaming milk (soy for Tony, almond for Bruce, and _ heavy cream _ for Thor because if anyone is going to be weird about it, it’s the guy from another planet) and adding cocoa and sugar in careful measurements, Pietro watching over his shoulder and delivering the drinks around the building. He’d settled in his room with his own cup, leaned against Sam and shared his drink while Wanda sipped hers and stared at Natey, sleeping in his crib.

“You can touch him, you know. Like, if you wanna feel his hair or whatever. Just be careful.”

She’d looked up with something like guilt flashing across her face, backing across the room. “I might… I don’t want to…” Red energy pulsed from her fingertips and she fled the room.

Clint and Sam both shrugged, settled in to sleep. Sam would be up early to fly out and meet Steve, leaving with Natasha at the crack of dawn. Clint had every intention of making the most of their reunion, but with that kind of time table they settled for kisses and quiet words in their dark bedroom.

He sees Sam off with sleepy kisses, gives Natasha a hug and a wink, then goes to find the biggest coffee cup on the premises. Tony seems to be the only other one awake at this hour, sitting on the couch in the lounge and scrolling through a tablet. Clint joins him with his coffee cup, unabashedly propping his feet into the other Omega’s lap. “We almost outnumber them now.”

Tony snorts, shoving his feet aside. “We outnumber any one type, which is good enough for me. How’s Natey?”

“Sound asleep.” He taps his ear lightly. “Hearing aid in one side, baby monitor in the other. I’m multitasking like all the best moms do. How’s your family?”

He doesn’t miss the hesitation, the way Tony touches the two marks at the back of his neck before speaking. “They’re good. Rhodey’s got his own government sanctioned heroics going on, and Pepper’s busy making sure that my company actually turns a profit. They’re real good.”

“Tony…” He takes a sip of coffee, sitting up and leaning closer to him. “When’s the last time you actually spent time with them? With both of them at the same time?”

“Not everyone’s joined at the hip like you and Sam are, Clint.”

His only answer is a raised eyebrow and another loud sip of coffee.

Eventually, Tony cracks. “We’re taking a break. The three person thing… isn’t working so well. They’re fine as friends, good friends even, but they both want me and don’t particularly want each other and I’m sick of getting stuck in the middle. Which, I know, weird for me to complain about having too much attention, but…” He shrugs, turning the tablet around in a blatant change of subject that Clint lets go. “Have you seen this? We’ve got another enhanced guy running around.”

Clint watches the video, pausing and rewinding a few times, frowning. “What’s with the costume?”

“Someone who doesn’t want to announce ‘I am Iron Man’ to the world, I’d guess, but doesn’t understand covert operations as well as you and Romanoff. Take a look at this, though.” He pulls up another video, skipping ahead a few minutes. Two would-be muggers, bound to a street lamp by something--not rope, not chain, it almost looks like…

“Are those supposed to be spiderwebs?”

“I think so. J.A.RV.I.S. just tipped me off about these videos being captured, I’m going to try to get a sample of this stuff. If I can trace where it’s being made, I can find this Spider Guy and…” Tony waves a hand. “See where it goes from there.”

“Good luck.” Clint pushes himself to his feet, coming back with a fresh cup of coffee. He should have just taken the whole pot, no one else is awake yet. “Speaking of J.A.R.V.I.S., I’m amazed he’s not installed here.”

“I have him down in the lab and in my room, but Hill had very specific orders that he _ not _ be in every corner of this place. Apparently being watched all the time makes some people uncomfortable.” Tony glances at Clint with a raised eyebrow. “Can’t imagine who.”

“Yeah, neither can I, you ass.”

“Oh, that’s going in the swear jar.” Tony flees from the couch and Clint’s half-hearted kicking, walking backwards out of the room. “Hey, come on down to the lab if you want. We’re studying the scepter.”

“Hard pass. I’ll save the magic for you guys.”

Tony huffs in the doorway. “It’s _ not _ magic, it’s just science that--”

“Thor can fly, Tony.” He accepts the middle finger raised to him with a grin, setting down his coffee cup and stretching out on the couch. It’s still too early to do much of anything, but as he gets comfortable, he hears other footsteps in the kitchen. It takes him an extra second to place the sounds, possibly latency from only having in one hearing aid, but after a moment, Clint sits up and looks behind him. The twins. That explains the unfamiliar footsteps.

Wanda sits down in an armchair with a steaming mug in her hands, Pietro leaning against the side of it and sipping a sports drink. They’re both looking at him expectantly, so Clint sits up with a sigh. “I’m seriously not your babysitter.”

“No one said you were,” Pietro snaps back, capping his drink and looking around the room. “We just…”

“A gilded cage is still a cage, isn’t it?” Wanda asks, her eyes narrowed on him. “We step out of line and we go somewhere much less pleasant, no?”

“I mean if you start trying to kill us, yeah, we’ll stop you. Are you planning to start trying to kill us? ‘Cause if not… stop walking on eggshells. Get familiar with this place. You’re welcome to stay here, or we can make other arrangements. I’m only gonna stick around another few…” Hours? Days? Until Sam gets back? He’d rather be back at the farm, rather have Natey back in his own room. Clint settles on a shrug. “If we’re going to trust you, you two are going to have to trust us at least a bit. And trust yourselves, dammit.”

Wanda’s still watching him, her gaze calculating. “How long?”

“Until what? C’mon, kid, I need some specifics here.”

“How long until someone comes to one of our rooms wanting something in return?”

Clint frowns, shaking his head quickly. “If anyone does that to either of you, you come tell me. I’ll put an arrow through their eye socket. Doesn’t matter who they are.” He jolts his head up suddenly, looking between them. “Are you two on suppressors?”

Pietro snorts, shaking his head. “They’re a little hard to come by when you’re fleeing the wrath of the Avengers.”

Dammit. “When were your last heats? Tony’s got links to pharmaceuticals, he can get you some good stuff. The ones I was on before I got pregnant were a shot every six months that made me pass as a Beta. Before that it was a suppression patch, only had a heat if I took it off.”

They exchange a thoughtful look, before shrugging. Wanda speaks up, her voice low. “We’ll think about it.”

“No pressure. I’m sure Tony has something set up for you to ride out a heat if that’s your choice.” He waves them off lightly, going to the kitchen and staring longingly at the coffee pot. More coffee is always the best option, but--

A soft cry in his ear jerks him away from it, down the hall and back to his room. Natey is just waking up, his face scrunching in discomfort--poopy pants face. Clint coos softly at him, lifting him up and changing him quickly, stroking a hand down his son’s back. “There’s my beautiful boy… You wanna see where momma works today?” Hell, it’d give him a chance to look around, too.

He finds a baby carrier in the closet, carefully strapping it to himself before settling Natey into it, stroking his hair gently. Tucking a few spit rags into his pockets and looping a soft cuddle toy around one of the carrier’s straps, Clint makes his way out of his room and down the hall. On the one hand, he has a certain amount of gratitude that J.A.R.V.I.S. isn’t looming over his shoulder in every corner. On the other hand, he walks down three different hallways and ends up at dead ends before retreating to the common room again.

“Just gettin’ my exercise,” Clint declares to the empty room, planting his hands on his hips and looking around. He has a pretty good sense of direction, he found his own room fine the day before. Front doorway, Avengers living quarters to the left and the more business-oriented side of things to the right. It seems that there’s space for more than just the team, though most of those doors are sealed. Clint heads out of the living quarters, stopping at the front desk.

“Okay, so say I want to… I don’t know, go shoot a bow and arrow--”

“Third door on your left, then second door on your right.” The man at the front desk doesn’t even look up, his eyes glued to his computer screen. “Mr. Stark requests that you only shoot the targets, and not the facilities or the staff, Mr. Barton.”

He keeps his smart remark to himself in an incredible display of self-control, stretching his arms up over his head. “How about baby-sitting?”

“The facility currently does not offer that service. Neither do any of the staff.”

“Not even Hill?” Like hell Maria Hill would _ want _ to watch his baby for him, but the mental image of her trying is enough to make him grin. Natasha has better odds keeping Natey alive for a few hours than Hill.

“Not even Hill. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

Clint thinks about it, tapping his foot lightly. He doesn’t mind wandering around and exploring on his own, even with the added weight of Natey in his carrier strapped to his chest. But there has to be something more productive… “Third door on the left, second door on the right. Got it.” Clint retreats back to the living quarters, heading down the hall where his room and the twins’ rooms are. There’s a fourth door in the hallway that’s been locked red since he arrived, but if he has to guess, he’d say it’s Natasha’s room.

He knocks lightly on each door, grinning when Pietro’s door opens to show both of the twins. “You two bored? I have an idea.”

* * *

"Archery isn’t about the target."

Clint draws back on the practice recurve, every muscle in his arm flexing and tensing with the effort, his thumb resting against his cheekbone. He keeps his eyes open, keeps his arrow centered on the target down range, and breathes.

When he lets it fly, his fingers barely twitch off the string. His posture relaxes in increments, long after the arrow has sunk into the dead center of the target. Slowly, his focus moves back to the twins, seated on the bench behind him, both of them focused.

“Archery is about control.”

He sets the bow down, calling the target back on the automated system and carefully pulling the practice arrow out of it. He spins it between his fingers before returning it to the quiver, touching the button to send the target down range again.

“It’s about stillness in your body and your mind.”

Clint looks between them, cocking his head slightly. Pietro’s bouncing his foot, his eyes moving around the room restlessly; getting the concept through to him, applying it to what he _ can _ do, is going to be a pain in the ass. Wanda seems a bit more capable of the focus, though he has a feeling that she’ll crack under pressure, be unable to maintain focus in the face of distraction.

“So, who wants to go first?”

His assessment isn’t wrong. And as frustrating as it is to deal with them, Clint doesn’t mind too much. By the time he calls it quits for the day, he at least has a strategy.

Pietro groans, shaking out his shoulder, allowing Clint’s fingers to dig into his bicep and rub the overworked muscle. “How does this help us, old man?”

“Because you need to learn how to be still and focus. You’re all about speed, but your speed doesn’t do much if you can’t direct it somewhere. And you,” he turns his attention to Wanda, taking her hands and helping flex out her fingers, “need to be able to do what you do without getting distracted. In a fight it’s not just one stationary target. You need to be able to find your goal and complete it, no matter what else is going on around you. ‘Cause there will be a lot going on.”

He scoops up Natey gently, trying not to jostle him too much in the carrier he’s been propped up in. The baby’s been asleep for most of the training session, though he’d fussed on occasion. Clint looks between the twins with a smile. “Come on, let’s call it for today. I’ve gotta feed my growing boy, and then we could all use some dinner. We can work on it more tomorrow.”

His plan that morning had been to go back to the farm after he heard from Sam. Go home, wait for his bondmate to come home, be sickeningly domestic for a while.

Now, as he settles in to get Natey some dinner, Clint figures he can stick around at least until his lessons with the twins are done. With Steve and Natasha out of commission, training the newest Avengers does sort of land on his shoulders.


	7. I Give My Love (A Four Letter Name)

With Steve and Natasha out of commission, reigning in Tony _ also _ lands on his shoulders.

This would be leagues easier if Thor and Bruce weren’t there encouraging the madness. Clint looks at Bruce, mouthing the word _ traitor _ from across the lab. Thor is another heap of problems, for _ letting _ Tony experiment with the scepter, but Bruce? Bruce is supposed to be the rational one. The one who can actually reign Tony in, when Pepper and Rhodey aren’t here.

He really, genuinely, considers calling Rhodey about this.

No one ever told Clint he had to be _ responsible _ if he stuck around.

“Listen, guys, all I’m saying is that before we mess with something we don’t understand, we consider _ all _ the consequences,” Clint tries again, his pleas mostly falling on deaf ears. At least Tony is sort of listening to him.

“They’re considered.”

“God dammit, where’s Steve when you actually need to be stopped?” He groans, retreating from the lab, placing himself a good distance away to observe. Wanda looks at him over her shoulder, hesitation on her face. Maybe he can talk _ her _ out of it?

“Contained within Loki’s scepter is an infinity stone, a source of immeasurable power. There are six in all, scattered throughout the galaxy. People seek these stones for their powers… It’s best if we contain it in a way that won’t allow it to fall into the wrong hands. Normally, this would be on Asgard, but…” Thor shakes his head. “There is already a stone on Asgard. It’s much safer to keep them scattered.”

“And this one is the… mind stone,” Bruce looks over his glasses to the scepter, rubbing his temples lightly. “It has the ability to alter the mind.”

“Hey, sounds familiar!” Clint shouts from his perch, making a face. “Sounds like the kind of thing that puts _ terrible ideas _ in your head!”

“Enough from the peanut gallery!” Tony calls back, turning to his nearer audience. “We need to get it out of the scepter.”

He’s not responsible for this. He’s not responsible enough to _ be _ responsible for this. Christ, he can barely keep himself fed some weeks. He’s not taking the fall for Tony destroying the entire east coast. Clint crosses his arms, his eyes on the scepter.

“According to everything we’ve studied, if Wanda and Thor both hit it with everything they’ve got, it should penetrate the barrier. And once they’ve broken through the barrier, we just need something capable of holding it without being destroyed.” Bruce looks around, shrugging. “I can ask the other guy. Seems like most of the radiation within the barrier is gamma, so if anyone should be okay with it…”

_ “No need, Doctor Banner.” _ J.A.R.V.I.S.’s smooth voice comes not from a speaker, but from a suit of armor that approaches the lab.

Clint raises an eyebrow, glancing around the lab. Certainly explains why J.A.R.V.I.S. itself hasn’t been telling Tony what a terrible idea this is, if the AI has been taken out of the lab.

“You got the Iron Legion up and running?” Bruce shakes his head, as if trying to shake off his surprise.

“I had a free weekend. You ready for this, J.A.R.V.I.S.?”

_ “As prepared as you are, sir.” _

“Awesome. Okay, be ready to grab the stone as soon as the barrier breaks. Bruce, we’re gonna wanna move back. Wanda, Thor, get ready.” Tony steps back through a doorway, tugging Bruce along with him. It slides shut with a pneumatic hiss, sealing the room with the scepter, the robot, and the other two in it.

A body drops next to Clint and he tilts his head, glancing over to Pietro. “You could probably talk your sister out of this, you know.”

“Don’t act like I haven’t tried. She wants to do this, if it will help protect people.” Pietro sighs, bracing his arms on the railing. “I think the only thing we can do is be ready to clean up the mess.”

“I’ve got an EMP arrowhead ready to throw down there if we need it.”

“Smart, for an old man.”

He doesn’t dignify that with a response, leaning forward again as Thor and Wanda move into position on either side of the scepter.

Even through the barrier, the crackle of electricity growing in the air can be felt (and _ that _ doesn’t give him much faith in the safety glass), the tension creeping into the back of Clint’s neck as Thor’s hammer begins to shake and spark. Red swirls around Wanda’s hands, pulling between them as she holds them out, forming a ball of energy.

They unleash at the same moment, both blasting the scepter with it, the robotic body behind it moving back a step. The safety glass shakes in its frames and Bruce and Tony both duck, looking away at the last moment. Thor and Wanda step back from the blast, shielding their eyes. He feels Pietro leave him, undoubtedly to go to his sister, and Clint’s pretty sure he’s the only one that sees what happens. Later, when they review the footage, it’s just a blurred flash of colors, red and blue and yellow almost completely whited out.

_ Something _ bursts from the scepter, small and sparking and J.A.R.V.I.S. touches it for but a moment, before it seems to wink out of existence. Even Clint can’t trace it for a vital second, his eyes on where it was rather than where it’s gone. He follows the line of the robot’s arm without much thought, spotting the winking yellow again, now firmly implanted in its forehead.

Quite clearly, even with the barriers, J.A.R.V.I.S. says _ “oh” _ and collapses to the ground.

Things seem to move a lot slower after that.

Sure, people are still scrambling around, but compared to the moments that even _ his _ eyes had trouble following, it seems slow. Tony is jamming buttons on the safety glass, trying to open the seal while Pietro damn near tries to run through it. Wanda staggers back from the collapsed robotic body, Thor’s big hands going to her shoulders and holding her steady. Bruce has circled around to the computer, his voice rising over the growing confusion.

“Guys I’m getting weird readings from in there.”

Clint climbs down and pulls Pietro back before he can run _ through _ the glass, just as Tony gets the door to hiss open again. Thor and Wanda make their way out, led immediately to decontamination as Tony seals the room again.

“J.A.R.V.I.S., status report.”

There’s an eerie, telling silence. Clint’s grip on Pietro goes slack, though the boy doesn’t try to flee. Slowly, they both look over at Tony, watching him run his hands through his hair.

“Tony…” Bruce starts, his words cut off as Tony abruptly rakes a hand across the desk, sending papers and equipment cascading to the floor. “Tony!”

“I put him in the legion. I put his programming into _ that _ bot so that he’d have the reaction times to do what we needed. _ I killed him_.” Tony shoves the entire desk, actually managing to move the heavy metal frame a couple of inches to the side. He yells, wordless, rounding on another corner of the lab.

“Go look after your sister,” Clint murmurs to Pietro, shoving him off. He walks in a careful circle around Tony’s tantrum, only running when he’s out of the room. Clint makes his own circle in the opposite direction, gently waving Bruce away.

Steve and Nat aren’t here. Being responsible falls on him.

“Tony.”

“I killed him I killed him I--” Tony goes stiff when Clint’s hands grab his shoulders, his eyes squeezing shut. “Let go.”

“Easy does it. Trashing the lab isn’t going to change anything.” He rubs Tony’s shoulders gently, one thumb digging into the back of his neck. “Talk me through it, smart guy. You’re telling me that you pulled J.A.R.V.I.S. out of every installation? The house in Malibu? The Tower in the city? Every computer, laptop, tablet, and phone that he’s ever touched?”

“_Yes_. We simulated what we thought would happen and determined that he needed his full focus on this to have the reaction time. No other tasks could be running. J.A.R.V.I.S. was completely in that room and now he’s--”

“Sir?”

They both jerk at the voice, coming slightly muffled through the safety glass. Clint looks over his shoulder, every inch of him going tense.

There’s something in that room. The Iron Legion body is gone, or moved, or… replaced? Clint frowns, looking at the red-skinned, hovering thing. That yellow glow is still emanating from its forehead. One of its hands is pressed lightly to the glass.

“Tony…”

“I don’t know.”

Cautiously, they approach, Tony’s hand lifting, pressing against the glass opposite the red hand. Whatever it is, it tilts its head in a surprisingly human gesture, slowly lowering its hovering to the ground. Its eyes close for a moment, form shifting, the expanse of red being replaced by something resembling clothing.

Clint touches the EMP arrowhead, wondering if the pulse would go through the safety glass or just disable it and allow this new problem out.

“What are you?” Tony asks softly, his dark eyes on the yellow gem in the thing’s forehead.

“I… am not sure, sir. A… protector, comes to mind. Perhaps…” Its eyes close again, head tipping back for a moment. When it speaks again, there’s more confidence in its voice. “A vessel for immeasurable power that must not fall into the wrong hands.”

“And your hands aren’t the wrong ones?” Clint asks, holding the gaze that darts to him.

“I would hope not. I seem to be able to choose what to do with my knowledge.” As if to demonstrate, it steps forward, through the barrier of the safety glass as if the door were open. It looks around the lab, face impassive. “I was born of a vision of protection. We shall see what kind of vision I am.”

“And J.A.R.V.I.S.?” Tony circles around it slowly, reaching out to touch before drawing back.

The thing--the _ vision_, apparently--closes their eyes again, before their smooth face cracks into a smile. “It seems that the J.A.R.V.I.S. program has informed what I am. A safety protocol for the world.”

Clint better not get in trouble for letting Tony do this. He just better not. His eyes track to Tony, one shoulder raising in a shrug. “Hey, this is your pet project, _ you _ can explain it to everyone else. Especially Cap.”

The slowly growing grin on Tony’s face subdues for only a moment before resurfacing twice as bright. “Bruce! C’mere, it worked!”

He’s not responsible enough to take responsibility for this.

* * *

By the miracle of timing, Clint literally gets to sit there with popcorn when Tony tells their missing companions what he’s been up to. It’s not as entertaining as he’d hoped, mostly Steve half paying attention and Natasha rubbing her temples like she has the world’s worst headache. Getting to see their faces, when Vision floats themself onto the camera, is sort of worth it. Steve’s jaw drops and Natasha buries her head in both hands.

Unfortunately, seeing them means they can see him, and sitting back eating popcorn while Tony explains that Vision isn’t a _ horrifying mistake of science _ is, apparently, the wrong thing to do.

“Barton,” Steve says, all of his Captain America Authority in the name. “You _ let _ this happen?”

“I did everything in my power to stop it, Cap.”

“Which was…?”

Clint moves closer to the camera, putting on his best kicked-puppy look. “I said ‘guys, maybe wait until Steve is here to talk you out of it’ and they said ‘nah let’s get wild like we live in a John Hughes movie and our parents aren’t home for the weekend.’ Personally, I would have preferred they just went _ Risky Business _ about it.”

Off camera, he hears Sam laugh, and that kills the kicked-puppy look with a grin. Steve and Natasha both look moderately perplexed, which is a _ damn shame _ given how iconic that _ Risky Business _ scene is. Clint makes a mental note to send it to them. Later, when they’re not mad at him. “Anyways, it seems like it worked out okay. Vision isn’t trying to destroy the world.”

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose, shaking his head. “Okay… Just…” He sighs heavily, his shoulders dropping. “I got nothin’. There’s no stopping you, is there, Stark?”

“Nope,” Tony pops the ‘p’ with a wide grin, leaning into Clint’s shoulder. “I don’t learn my lesson until the _ third _ degree burns.”

“So…” Clint’s already on the call, he might as well make it worthwhile. “How’s your mission going? Got an ETA on coming back?”

Natasha shakes her head slightly, looking past the camera. Over a screen it’s harder to read her expression, but not impossible. Silent communication with someone. It must be Sam. Either that or she and Bucky Barnes have figured each other out. Finally, her inscrutable gaze moves back to him on the screen. “I guess I can let Wilson go back to you. Though I dunno, Clint, we’re startin’ to really need this guy. He kinda brings the team together.”

Clint huffs in mock annoyance. “You used to say that about _ me_. Tasha, what happened to us?”

“I think you’re finally growing up. You have a family now.”

“Yeah and you stole half my family. Gimme back my bondmate, you and Steve will be fine on your own.”

One corner of her mouth curls up slightly, before she shakes her head. “We have a couple more things to wrap up. I’ll have him back in one piece by the end of the week.”

“I _ guess _ I can wait that long.” He smiles, head cocking to the side after a moment. “But I doubt Natey can. Gotta go, he’s starting to wake up.” The hearing aid in one ear, baby monitor in the other trick is the best thing he’s ever done. Clint Barton considers himself a genius for it.

He leaves the rest of the call to Tony and Vision, heading back to his room and scooping up Natey, planting kisses on his fussy face until the baby is content again. A quick check of his pants shows a clean diaper, which probably means he’s hungry. Another point in Clint’s favor, he’s really figured out this whole _ parenting _ thing.

* * *

He lets Sam stick around the compound just long enough to say hi to everyone, then practically hauls him into the car, his left hand not leaving Sam’s right as they drive away from the group and back towards home. A plane would be faster, but with Natey with them they’re stuck using ground transport.

“I didn’t realize how much you missed me,” Sam offers lightly, squeezing Clint’s hand. “Woulda come back sooner.”

“I didn’t realize it either. Not until I saw you again.” He sighs, dropping his head to Sam’s shoulder. “It’s not--obviously we can’t spend every second together. And we don’t. But getting back in the field… not really getting to come down… and then having to see you off almost right away… It kinda piled up.”

They’re silent for a hundred or so miles, just the sounds of radio stations fading in and out. Clint could plug in one of their phones and find actual music, but the soft static is sort of pleasant. It’s something he can hear without having to listen for it. The same sort of white noise that fills his mind when he turns his hearing aids off for too long.

“They took him to Wakanda. It’s a little country in Africa, doesn’t look like much from the outside, but… The world’s vibranium supply comes from there and they’re years ahead of everyone else in the tech department. Their scientists think that they can deprogram the Winter Soldier from Bucky Barnes. I came back instead of going there with them.” Sam strokes his thumb over Clint’s hand, humming softly. “Steve and Natasha are staying with him… Sort of an insurance policy. And… Not that I blame him, but the guy’s got trust issues. Would barely ever let me near him, and I’m like the least possible threat. Regular human, bonded Beta. Apparently they turned Barnes into an Omega at some point. Natasha thinks they wanted to make him into a breeding program. Hydra was messed up, man.”

His eyes dart to Natey in the rearview, teeth worrying his lip for a moment. “It was.” He’s long since come to terms with his doubts, with his fears. No matter what it started as, Brock loved him at the end. That’s what Clint has to hold onto. “So once he’s fixed up… what then?”

“Then Steve _ says _ he gets to decide for himself. But given the way Barnes keeps looking at him, my guess is he’s gonna be pretty open to suggestions.” Sam shrugs, his eyes flicking over to Clint. “Speaking of open to suggestions, any ideas on how to celebrate our homecoming?”

A crooked grin takes over his face, his body moving as close to Sam as the seatbelt will allow. “I have a few ideas…”

* * *

It’s late, or maybe early is more appropriate, and he’s comfortable. Sam’s arm is draped lazily over him, his bondmate’s body close, breathing even with sleep. Clint’s not even sure what woke him up, exactly. A noise from Natey’s room, but there’s nothing now. He starts to roll over, to go back to sleep--_probably fucking birds_\--when there’s another noise.

Which is definitely someone talking.

Clint’s on his feet before his eyes are even open all the way, one hand on the knife under his pillow. He sees Sam’s head raise in sleepy concern and waves him back gently, moving out of the room and across the hall. Natey’s door is open a crack, the mild glow of his night light spilling into the hall. Just as he left it.

There’s a small noise, a fuss, from in the room and another low human tone shushing it. On silent feet, Clint moves to the door, easing into the space until he can see in.

The window is open. He definitely shut it. _ There is _ no _ cover through that window. _ He knew it and he still put Natey’s room there.

One blurry shadow moves away from the others on the wall and Clint doesn’t need to see the room to know that whoever is in there is at the crib. That means they have their back to the door, that means--

“_Nathaniel Rumlow Barton_. God, kid, I’m sorry. My last name makes a shitty middle name.”

His heart stops, then picks up triple-time. He knows that voice. He _ knows _ that voice. It doesn’t matter that it’s distorted from the baby monitor, or rough like the owner of it has been eating gravel, he knows the sound of Brock Rumlow’s voice.

Clint’s mouth moves and faint, strange, he hears his own voice in his ear, transmitted from the baby monitor. “Brock?” He opens the door slowly, carefully, with none of his planned stealth. The knife drops to the floor, his hand unresponsive to his brain’s command to hold onto it. “Brock, is that you?”

He’s nothing more than a shadow among shadows, even with the nightlight. The moonless night and western window offer no extra light to the room and the nightlight is backlighting him. Leaned over the crib, one hand gently touching Natey’s sleeping face. “Don’t turn the light on,” he whispers, carefully moving his hands up, off the baby. He raises them to either side, not turning around.

“I thought you were dead.”

“Kinda wish I was. I’m not--I’m not here to hurt you. Or him. I just…” Brock swallows audibly and Clint’s arms wrap around himself, hold himself tight. “I have a son. That’s… wow.”

“How did you…” He can’t even finish a question. How did he survive, how did he get here, how did he know Clint had had the baby, there are too many questions spinning through his head too fast.

It’s too much. This is like every dream he had in those first months, flipped into a nightmare. Brock walking back into his life was all he wanted then, but… but now it’s something he can’t have. Now he has Sam. Now he has a bond with someone he loves. Someone who loves him and loves Natey and he can’t throw that away, not for anything. Not for any_one_. Not for a ghost.

Brock turns around slowly and even in the barely-there light, Clint gets a good look at the craggy horror of his face. Burn scars, pulling the left side of his face into a permanent leer. He looks like he’s been through a meat grinder. “I kept hearin’ your voice while I was waiting to die. You tellin’ me… everything from that phone call. I… I wanted to come home to you, Clint, I did. Just… took me some time.”

The hall light flicks on behind him and they both flinch. Distantly, he hears Sam’s voice. “Clint?”

He can’t look away from Brock. Clint licks his lips, reaching back and rubbing the back of his neck slowly. As if the light hasn’t already illuminated his bond scar in stark relief. Did Sam hear them? He doesn’t know, can’t remember if the baby monitor in the bedroom was on or off. He wouldn’t notice either way, not with his hearing aids out. “Everything’s fine, Sam. I’m on my way back.”

The twisted flesh of Brock’s face pulls down, his eyes locked on Clint’s hand. “Oh,” he says simply, taking one step towards the window. “I guess it was a lot to ask--”

“Brock, it’s not like that--”

“You kept me going, you know,” he continues, talking over Clint, still keeping his voice low. “Lying in the hospital, having pain medication withheld once they figured out I was Hydra, I just kept reminding myself that if I survived, I could make good on the promise you wanted from me. That I could come home to you and love you. When I escaped, all I was trying to do was get back to you.” He puts one hand on the open window, looking out over the fields behind the house. “How long did you wait before moving on, Barton?”

_ Barton_. It’s like a punch to the stomach. Clint takes a hesitant step forward, feeling his throat trying to close with panic. He can’t lose Brock again, not when he just got him back! He won’t! “It’s not like that, Brock. I didn’t… You were _ dead _ and--and I had to bond with someone who could love me _ and _ the baby, or I’d lose the baby. I had to bond with Sam just to keep my last piece of you _ alive_!” The words burst out of him, louder than he intends, and Natey startles in his crib, starts crying in earnest. Clint feels himself pulled to the baby, but his eyes stay on Brock, stock still in the window.

“I loved you. I was yours and… And I thought you were mine.”

“Brock wait--”

He’s gone, and Natey’s crying harder. Clint moves not to his son, but to the window, watching the shadow among shadows disappear across the fields. Brock hits the treeline and vanishes completely.

Sam’s voice comes over the baby monitor, low and careful. “Clint? I’m coming into the room.” He can’t look away from the window, from the last place he saw Brock. “I’m gonna touch your arm now, is that okay? Give me a yes if it is, otherwise I won’t--”

“It’s fine.” He turns, buries his face into Sam’s chest before the Beta can even put a hand on him. Clint’s shoulders shake with his sobs, thankfully muffled enough that he doesn’t have to hear them himself. Not that he likely could, over the increasing volume of Natey’s fussing.

Sam holds him, kisses the top of his head, strokes his back. Sam does everything perfect to comfort him, just like a bondmate should, and Clint feels his heart ache for the arms around him to be Brock’s.

By the time he stops crying and manages to get Natey calmed down, the sun is starting to come up. He can hear the birds on the baby monitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To the surprise of no one, why yes, Rumlow survived.
> 
> As of drafting this I'm working on part 3*, which is three different stories (one from Clint and Brock's perspective, one from Tony and Peter, and one from Steve and Bucky) covering the events of a very not-canon-compliant Civil War and a much more canon compliant Infinity War. And that means that despite my working notes from back in August being "fuck you I'm not doing Endgame"... There will be a part 4 featuring Endgame. 
> 
> This was supposed to be incredibly self-indulgent heat fic featuring my thirst for Brock Rumlow and Clint Barton, what the fuck happened.
> 
> *As of posting this I've got one entire part of part 3 done and half of another part... Unfortunately, I've also lost some motivation in this series in favor of another project, haha whoops. We'll see where things are when The Bridges I Have Burned finishes posting. To date, this is far and away the longest continuous project I've worked on, at well over 100k by this point and with nearly six months of continuous work. I'm hoping that the creative spark returns so that I can finish this entire series, especially because the _ideas_ are there, it's just the _words_ that have left me.


End file.
